Recluse
by CSI Clue
Summary: A Movieverse AU-What if Tony Stark *wasn't* the face of Stark Industries? thanks to my betas, VR Trakowski and Lovellama
1. Chapter 1

The first thing Pepper notices are the weeds. The landscaping up from the Pacific Coast Highway is usually well-kept, but here at the turn-off, the straggly growths rise up and give a shabby look around the edges of the thick ornate iron fencing. She looks away from them and up to the fly-specked computer screen embedded in the brick column in the center of the drive.

A computerized voice with a British accent comes from the slightly corroded grille even though the screen stays blank. "If you are seeking Pier Beach, it lies another six miles up the Pacific Coast Highway. If you are seeking roadside assistance, please use the touch screen and a tow truck will be dispatched immediately."

Pepper clears her throat and repeats the words given to her an hour earlier. "Jar-vis, override beta two, SI identity number one six six three."

There is a pause, and while Pepper waits, she notices a plastic bag snagged in some of the weeds. A very faded and torn one, with a Pizza Cake logo on it.

"Override accepted. Welcome, Doctor Potts," the voice says, and with a screech of rusty squeals, the gate in front of her Lexus begins to roll open. From the sound of it, they don't move very often or fast, and Pepper waits until the noise stops before pulling forward. She gets a few feet inside and notices that the sound starts up again behind her as the gates close.

She feels a shiver down her spine at the thought of being trapped. It's a sunny day, a beautiful day, but here along the cliffs overlooking the beach Pepper feels a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. The driveway stretches out in front of her, and more weeds line the edges of the asphalt. Some are already pushing up through the cracks, blooming in the sunshine.

She drives slowly; the road is uneven under the wheels, but as she looks up, Pepper catches sight of one of the most famous mansions in the world, and she sucks in a breath, looking at it against the skyline, imposing and clean-lined, an architectural wonder.

The Stark Compound West, more familiarly known as Malibu Mansion. Pepper knows the story well; how Howard and Maria Stark commissioned famed Googie architect John Lautner to design a west coast home for them, and how he'd created the Streamline Moderne building on the cliff side, giving it an organic and balanced perfection.

They'd never had a chance to live in it.

Pepper notices that the Italian Cypress that line the drive are battered looking and untrimmed and she's sad that such a gorgeous estate has been allowed to go to seed. Then she pushes the thought away because she's here for a reason and it has nothing to do with the aesthetics of this place.

She's scared, and she wishes she'd been allowed to bring someone with her. At this point, even having Lou, her fat orange tabby would be a help. Not a _lot_ of help, but enough to quell the butterflies in her stomach, because she's walking in to see a dead man, and that's enough to upset anyone. But Obadiah Stane had been crystal clear on the subject: Only her.

The house looms now, and Pepper reaches the curve of the drive where it nestles up against the double sided stairs. The driveway curls off to the right, and she guesses that's where the garage is, but she's been instructed to go up through the main doors, so she leaves the Lexus out in front. Pepper turns off the engine and sits for a long moment, hands still on the wheel as she takes deep breaths and calms herself.

She has a job to do. She has the authorization to be here. She's a professional.

She's still scared.

It's been over twenty years since anyone has seen Anthony Edward Stark. The man has avoided the public eye for two decades, and if it wasn't for his tax returns and occasional taped messages to Stark Industries most people would assume he was dead. A lot of the American public actually _believe_ he's dead, and that Stane keeps the name of Stark on the business out of sentimentality.

No publicity, no outside contact, no visitors. Tony Stark is a man who prefers privacy, and the few people who have tried to break into this estate have been prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Pepper finally picks up her bag and climbs out of her car. She looks up towards the front doors of the house. She takes the left-hand steps and begins to climb them, seeing sticks and leaves and other debris along each unswept step.

She reaches the doors; a grand pair of redwood panels with intricate carvings along the six inset squares of each. One door—the right—swings open with a tiny creak, and for a moment Pepper harbors the wild urge to run away. Her breathing is shallow now, and her mouth is dry.

Time to get professional. Pepper steps into the foyer. She expects it to be dusty; the air is certainly stale here and still, but the marble floor shines in the dim light. Then the British voice speaks again, startling her so badly that she actually jumps.

"Doctor Virginia Potts, Stark Industries employee number one thousand six hundred and sixty-three. Stand still please for biosensor scanning."

Pepper tries not to move, and from the ceiling, a beam flares out, touching the top of her head and rolling down her body, spreading out to light up all of her for a second in a grid of neon before fading. From the wall, a touchpad lights up and extends towards her.

"Thank you. Please press all ten of your fingertips to the pad," the voice directs. She does so, having already been briefed on this battery of verification. After a moment, the voice speaks again.

"Thank you, Doctor Potts. You have been recorded and verified. Access to primary sections of the compound is granted. Is there anything you require at the moment?"

"Um, I'm here to see Mr. Stark?" she ventures softly, clutching her bag.

"Mr. Stark is currently in the master bedroom," the voice says quietly. "The master bedroom is one floor above us. There is a staircase beyond the foyer and to your right, or, if you prefer, there is an elevator for your convenience."

"Th-thank you," Pepper manages, feeling amused that the artificial intelligence includes an in-house GPS system on top of everything else. "I'll just . . . take the stairs."

"You're welcome, Doctor Potts."

Pepper finds the curving staircase and climbs it, moving quietly upwards. There is a skylight here, and it makes the immediate area in the center of the spiral brighter than the rest of the house. At the top of the stairs, Pepper looks around at the quiet hallway, and notes the fresh vacuum tracks on the carpet here. The tracks are very wide, she sees, and then starts down the hall, checking the doors.

There is an open one that reveals a room only slightly less smaller than her entire apartment, and Pepper blinks at the spaciousness. A bed is there, the mattress the equivalent of a double California King. A sort of California-sized football field, she thinks before spotting the figure balled up under the blankets on the left side. She moves into the room and calls gently. "Mr. Stark?"

No answer. Pepper hears breathing though, raspy and wet. Concerned, she comes forward, approaching the figure. She bends down and sees that it's a man huddled up on his side. He's incredibly shaggy, with hair to his shoulders and a beard that would look at home on a Cossack. He smells, too; a ripe unwashed mix of sweat and other odors she can't quite identify. He seems to be sleeping though, and Pepper doesn't want to startle him, but she sees the flush of his skin and can practically feel the heat radiating off of him.

The fever. More concerned now, she presses a hand to his cheek just under his temple, in one of the few places of bare skin. The heat frightens her. "My God you're burning up!"

Mr. Stark's temperature is one hundred and four point seven," the voice announces, "And his pulse is seventy three."

"He needs to be cooled down," Pepper mutters. "Immediately. Water—do we have water?"

"The washroom is off to your right, Doctor Potts," comes the voice. "There is rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet as well."

"Thank you," Pepper murmurs in distraction, and moves off in the indicated direction. She takes a washcloth and wets it under a motion-activated faucet, wrings it out and returns, folding it into a pad before laying it along Mr. Stark's face.

He reacts, jerking and rolling to his back, and when he opens his eyes, Pepper has never seen eyes so soulful and brown. "It's okay," she murmurs, re-adjusting the washcloth to his forehead. "You're hot."

"So are you," he blurts in a weak rasp, blinking. His gaze is unfocused though, and Pepper realizes he probably isn't sure if he's awake or not. Carefully she dabs the washcloth around his face and neck, practically hearing the sizzle.

He's wearing a tee-shirt, and with fascinated horror, Pepper sees there's a hole in the center of it; a hole cut there to accommodate what looks like some sort of . . . device.

A glowing mechanical device imbedded in his chest.

Startled, Pepper moves a hand to touch it, but out of the corner of her eye she sees Mr. Stark cough and instead, she reaches for her bag. "How long have you been sick?"

He says nothing, still blinking in a glassy-eyed way, and the voice of the Artificial Intelligence speaks up instead. "Mr. Stark's body temperature began to rise nearly forty-eight hours ago."

"Has he complained of any symptoms? Headache, chills, nausea?" Pepper demands, pulling out her stethoscope and pausing as she tries to figure out just where to place it on Mr. Stark's chest.

"Mr. Stark has ingested two doses of ibuprofen, the first one thirty hours ago, and a second dose twenty-one hours ago," the voice tells her. "He has also had me adjust the thermostat once in that time."

Pepper settles for placing the stethoscope along the left side of the . . . thing . . . in his chest and listening carefully for a moment. Reassured by the strong beat, she shifts it to listen to his lungs. They're clear, but slightly wheezy, and her initial diagnosis comes into sharper focus. "Flu."

"Influenza would require exposure to other persons," the voice comments. "Mr. Stark does not make contact with other beings."

There is a pause.

"Mr. Stark sends out for pizza," Pepper deduces. "And pizzas are created and handled by other beings."

The voice is silent and Pepper, feeling a little smug at being able to find a probable chain of contamination, turns to her bag again. She fishes out a tongue depressor and catches Mr. Stark's furry chin, opening his mouth and inserting the depressor to peer deep into his throat. No pus or swollen tonsils; some redness consistent with coughing.

He stirs sluggishly, one hand coming up, reaching for her. "Who . . ?"

"I'm Doctor Potts. We need to get some analgesics into you. Hang on and I'll get some wa--"

There's a whirring noise, and Pepper looks to see a thing—a rolling robot—with a large claw coming in the doorway of the bedroom. She tries not to scream, especially when she sees that it's carrying a plastic bottle of water. The robot stops at the foot of the enormous bed—and really, Pepper can't get over how much acreage there is to this mattress—and the arm extends, the hissing pneumatics loud in the silent room.

"You required water?" the voice from above asks softly, breaking the quiet. Pepper swallows hard and timidly reaches for the bottle.

"Um, yes. Thank you," she murmurs towards the ceiling.

"You are welcome, Doctor Potts. Will there be anything else required immediately?"

Slightly flustered, Pepper tries to think as she unscrews the top of the water bottle. "Some crushed ice and a few more towels would help . . . how long has it been since Mr. Stark bathed?"

"Mr. Stark's last ablutions were fifty-three hours ago," the voice recites and Pepper hears a hint of chide in it that makes her smile. Clearly the AI does not approve of smelliness either. She finds some Motrin in her bag and slips an arm around Mr. Stark to get him to sit up.

"All right, you need to take some pills . . . can you do that for me?"

"Doctor Hotts," he murmurs agreeably. Smirking, Pepper knows that he's delirious. She hands him the Motrin and water; Mr. Stark manages to swallow them and drink the water, but he slobbers, and some of the water leaks at the corners of his mouth, trickling through his beard and onto his tee-shirt.

More whirring; this time the robot has a friend, and both of them are carrying things. One has a plastic bag of ice and the other has a stack of towels.

Pepper helps Mr. Stark down to the mattress again and gets to work rolling ice in the towels and resting them on his shoulders and forehead. He flops a bit, and she notices that although he's pale, he's in fairly good shape. A little thin, in fact.

"Shhhh," she soothes him. "Just rest and let the medicine do its work."

"Water," Mr. Stark mumbles, and she gives him a little more. Already he looks better, and when he closes his eyes, Pepper notes how incredibly long his eyelashes are.

She looks around for a chair, but there isn't one, not in this massive acre of a bedroom. "Um, computer . . . person?"

"My appellation is Jarvis, Doctor Potts; it is an acronym for Justified Articulately Responding Voice-Interactive Servbot," he informs her with the faintest trace of pride.

"Jarvis," she repeats, smiling a bit, because he's been incredibly helpful so far, "is there a . . . chair around here?"

One of the 'bots rolls out the bedroom door and returns a moment later pushing an upholstered computer chair. Pepper takes it with a murmur of thanks and sits at Mr. Stark's bedside, shifting the ice packs every ten minutes.

She finds herself staring at the circular disk on his chest.

*** *** ***

An hour later, Pepper has wandered all through the silent museum of a house. Mr. Stark is still sleeping, so she feels safe in leaving him for a while. The entire place quiet and still, but scrupulously clean, and she can't help but feel as if it's still brand-new; untouched. The huge windows are tinted, and she knows that from the outside, no-one has ever gotten a glimpse inside even though Pepper herself has a magnificent view of the Pacific.

It's all very . . . stark, she can't help but think with an inner wince at the terrible pun. The main living room is the size of a hotel lobby, and could accommodate one of Stane's fancy parties with space to spare. The only personal touch is a gleaming ebony baby grand piano, and when she comes closer to look at it, she notes a few grubby finger marks on some of the white keys. Somehow the thought of Tony Stark sitting there playing music all by himself sends a pang through her, and Pepper moves away to look around the other rooms on the main floor.

There's a kitchen that would make a professional chef weep with envy, full of stainless steel appliances and black marble countertops. It looks a bit like an operating room, and Pepper moves quickly to the refrigerator, pulling it open to inspect the contents.

Her guess is correct: two old Pizza Cake boxes are there, along with a Won Ton Williams carryout container and a collection of wines and beers. The vegetable cooler is completely empty and Pepper shakes her head ruefully. "Jarvis, who prepares Mr. Stark's meals? Besides the pre-prepared delivery stuff?"

"Mr. Stark has programmed the house 'bots for simplified food preparation, Doctor Potts. They are capable of producing sandwiches, a few simple pasta dishes and pancakes."

She looks up towards the ceiling, her astonishment giving way to concern. "What about fresh fruits and vegetables? Salads? Soups?"

"Regrettably, Mr. Stark rarely varies his diet."

"I'm going to guess he's undernourished and anemic," Pepper growls. "That would explain in part why the flu has hit him so hard. We need food here, Jarvis, *real* food and not just items in cans or containers."

"Do you wish me to place an order with the nearest retail grocer who delivers, Doctor Potts?" Jarvis asks, and she blinks, because it's a damned good idea.

"Yes," she says firmly. "Milk, eggs, an assortment of whatever fruit is in season, some cruciferous vegetables, cheese—does he eat cheese?"

"He has been known to eat grilled cheese sandwiches," Jarvis admits, and Pepper gives a sigh.

"And juices—fruit and nectars. How much . . ." Pepper waves at the beers and wine bottles.

"Two bottles a week," Jarvis responds, "interspersed with varying amounts of beer."

"Not the best," Pepper sighs again and closes the refrigerator. "How about exercise?"

"Mr. Stark follows a regime of an hour of running on the treadmill and an hour of free weights three times a week."

"Better," Pepper admits, glad that at least Mr. Stark is an active little hamster in his habitrail. "Oh and a few potassium enriched sports drinks to the order, please."

"Noted. Do you require anything from the delicatessen or meat departments?"

Pepper thinks for a moment. She's not a chef by any means, but she does have a few cooking skills. "Some chicken legs, and a nice chuck roast I suppose."

"I will place the order immediately," Jarvis assures her, and Pepper nods.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome, Doctor Potts."

"Jarvis . . ." Pepper hesitates, then continues, feeling a little reckless now. "Earlier you gave me Mr. Stark's vitals . . . are you monitoring him medically? Do you have some sort of diagnostic capability?"

"One of my primary functions is to monitor Mr. Stark continuously," the AI responds. "I keep detailed data on his physical status at all times."

Pepper finds that to be . . . creepy. She looks around the huge kitchen once more and crosses her arms, rubbing her hands from elbows to shoulders. "Okay. And about that . . . device in his chest?"

"You do not have the authorization for that information at this time," Jarvis tells her, and this time Pepper swears she can hear an undertone of regret in the voice. She gives a sigh and steps out of the kitchen.

Pepper peeks into a few other rooms, finding a vast library, complete from first editions to e-Books, a gymnasium with boxing ring, running track, indoor pool and every high-tech piece of exercise equipment yet made, a genuine Swedish sauna, a thermostatically chilled walk-in wine cellar and a medical care room. This latter pleases her; gives her a sense of purpose and Pepper steps in, noting the examination table and array of cabinets and devices with approval. "This looks familiar."

"The Medical suite," Jarvis intones, "More vulgarly referred to by Mr. Stark as the 'Boo-boo Room'."

Pepper laughs softly. "I take it he doesn't like this place?"

"Mr. Stark does not," Jarvis replies, adding, "This is a fully functional medical facility with on-line access to Mr. Stark's records if you wish to review them."

"I do," Pepper replies, looking around more urgently now. "Records of everything but the, ah . . ?" she waves at her chest.

"Yes," Jarvis agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony opens his eyes. He is achy and still dead tired, but he doesn't feel as bad as he did . . . yesterday? Has it been that long? Rolling over, he finds a damp towel draped along his shoulder, and he stares at it, wondering why it's there. Had he showered? Tony didn't think he had. Experimentally he sniffs one armpit and quickly regrets it.

Time to take care of the stench, he decides, and slowly gets to his feet, feeling heavy and dull. Tony hates being sick. Being sick is a waste of time, and he resents his body's weakness. Bad enough to have to live with the Thing; at least that has a purpose. He sluggishly lumbers across the thick carpet to the bathroom, calling up gruffly. "Jarvis, shower, one hundred two degrees, massage showerhead."

"Very well, Mr. Stark. Please refrain from micturation; I require a sample today."

Tony grumbles as he peels off his grungy clothes, kicking them away with one bare foot. "It's an inalienable right of every male to pee in the shower."

"Corrupted samples skew the data," Jarvis replies calmly.

Tony says nothing, still grumbling under his breath. The constant monitoring is one of Obie's safeguards, and generally Tony doesn't mind, but at the moment he's got a full bladder, and standing in warm water is not going to help that at all. He showers more quickly than usual, scrubbing his hair and soaping up his pits and thick beard before rinsing off and stepping out.

He shakes his shaggy head like a dog, flinging water droplets everywhere, and reaches for a towel, but there isn't one on the rack, so he steps out to fetch the one from the bed.

Five steps into the bedroom, he looks up and sees the woman standing there staring at him.

Tony freezes. A weird shift in time holds the moment, drawing it out like a long filament as he takes in_ everything_ all at once. Her high heel shoes. Her freckles. Her blushing cheeks.

The fact that he's dripping wet and completely naked in front of a gorgeous total stranger of the opposite sex.

Jesus fucking CHRIST!

He yells, and drops his hands over his crotch, backpedaling for the bathroom door. Tony misses it and hits the wall with his spine instead, and the woman _starts coming forward_ which alarms him even more. Tony skitters along the wall, eyes wide. "Jarvis! Intruder!"

"Mr. Stark—" the woman tries to interrupt him, but Tony can feel his panic rising now, and he fumbles his way back through the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning against it, naked and dripping wet, hyperventilating.

"Jarvis, who the _hell_ is--!"

"—Mr. Stark are you all right?" whoever she is, she's pounding on the door now; he can feel her thumping through the wood.

"—The doctor sent by Mr. Stane--"

"I. Don't. NEED. A. Doctor!" Tony roars, the sound loud in the bathroom as it echoes off the damp tiles, but even as he shouts he feels himself getting dizzy and he gasps for breath.

"Mr. Stark!"

"Respiration accelerated, blood pressure is now one thirty over ninety-three," Jarvis the traitor reports loudly.

Tony curses and yells himself. "Protocol One!"

"I am sorry Mr. Stark, but Mr. Stane has given the doctor Beta Two status which overrides Protocol One."

"Well_ I_ didn't give her Beta Two status! And I sure as HELL don't . . ." It's too much: the flu, the shower, the shock--Tony feels himself beginning to slide down the door, to lose consciousness, "NEED . . . a doccccc . . ."

The next time Tony wakes up it's to a horrid _nasty_ smell; he coughs and jerks his face away from the ammonia vial, feeling the softness of the mattress under him.

"You fainted," a voice says, and Tony glares up at the woman.

"I don't _faint."_ he insists. She looks askance. Tony didn't know people really did that, but here she is doing it, head cocked to one side, watching him.

"You . . . passed out," she amends and he feels better, having won this little battle.

"I had _cause_," he points out peevishly. "Some strange intruder was in my house catching me naked and ill. That's not an everyday event around here."

She says nothing, and Tony risks looking down at himself, feeling grateful that he's under the covers. His temples are throbbing, he's on the verge of a killer headache and he still has to pee.

"Mr. Stark, I know you're not used to . . . visitors, but I need to run a few tests," she begins in a soft voice.

"No."

"I really _need_ to do them," she murmurs. "A little blood and a urine sample. According to Jarvis, you're used to both of those."

"No," Tony repeats, clutching the covers. He can't think; his head hurts too much and he's naked and this woman needs to go the hell away. She smiles at him, and it's funny because even though Tony's annoyed as fuck, a tiny part of him wants to smile back.

She settles herself into the chair next to the bed and he tries to stare her down. "Go away."

"Mr. Stark," she tells him, "In terms of anatomy, your bladder may be bigger, but at the moment, mine is empty and yours is not. I can wait you out."

With a sinking feeling, Tony realizes it won't be that long a siege.

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying to figure out how best to solve this problem. He lays it out mentally in precise terms, because that's what his engineering tells him to do.

Bullet point one: Obie has overreacted and sent an intruder. In the many years they've been friends, Obie has _never_ violated the 'no visitors' clause, so all that Tony can figure is that his vitals must have hit a critical point. Given how weak he is right now, he can believe that.

Still, he's angry. "Where's Obie?"

"Mr. Stane is in Belgium at the moment," the woman murmurs, pulling out a small laptop from a bag on the floor. "He said he would be checking in with you soon."

Tony chews on this a moment.

Bullet point two: Obie didn't cancel his agenda even though he, Tony, was sick. Tony isn't sure if he's more pissed or hurt. It's stupid to be hurt; Obie is the public face of Stark Industries and Tony knows that. If Obie has asked him for advice Tony would have urged him to go to Belgium.

Weirdly, it still hurts. Maybe because Obie is . . .

Well, the only friend he's got.

Tony shoves all that aside. "Who _are_ you?" he finally rasps, eyeing the woman suspiciously again and trying to ignore serious twinges from his bladder.

She smiles at him, and for a second, Tony blinks, caught in the serene curve of her mouth and the sweet grace that lights up her face as she stands to lean over him, running a hand across his forehead. For a second, he remembers that same position, that same expression from another time.

"I'm Doctor Virginia Potts."

"Doctor Hotts. Potts," he corrects himself, flushing a bit. "You're a doctor. A doctor. Why?"

"Because I have a medical degree," she tells him sweetly.

"No! I mean why do I need a doctor?" Tony growls, although part of him inside is a little bit tickled at her comment. "I'm not sick."

"You were and still are," Doctor Potts corrects him. "You had an elevated temperature and all the classic symptoms of the flu. How-EVER," she chides him, "Without say, a few medical tests, it's hard to diagnose precisely what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Tony snaps. "I'm fine!"

"Mr. Stark, I respectfully disagree. You have had a serious fever for at least twenty-four hours now, and you've lost consciousness in a moment of extreme stress. Jarvis has assured me that I have Mr. Stane's authorization to undertake whatever medical treatment I deem necessary, and if that involves restraints and a catheter to collect specimens from you then . . ." she lets the statement trail off, and the imagery it leaves behind makes Tony shudder.

His mouth is dry; this is more talking than he's done in a long time. "Fine," he spits out. "Fine. You can have my precious bodily fluid samples if it will get you out of here any faster."

"Thank you," she tells him, not ruffled in the least. "There's a clean catch cup on the counter in the bathroom; when you're through please wash your hands and I'll draw the blood."

There is a pause.

Tony gives a long, dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. "Do you mind? I'm still naked here."

"Oh I don't mind," Doctor Potts says quietly, and for a second Tony feels the heat of a full-body blush roll across his neck and face. This woman is . . . is unbelievable.

The fucking _nerve!_

He won't admit that he's got the beginnings of wood; better to focus on being angry, not horny. Then she rises and turns away, moving so that she's between him and the bedroom door, and Tony frets for a moment longer before sitting up and scooting himself into the bathroom.

Finally, relief.

Once he's given for the cause, Tony lets himself go. And go, and go.

He can't believe this; first time he's had company at the mansion, and he's on a marathon piss, but when things finally end, he shakes off, washed his hands and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Yep. Still naked.

"Mr. Stark, are you done?"

"I'm surprised Jarvis isn't giving you the live video feed," he yells through the door. "Yes I'm done, but I'm not coming out."

"You don't have to," Doctor Potts tells him. "Just let the little wheelie robot come get the sample."

"I don't have to come out?" Tony is confused. He opens the door a crack and holds the cup out. Dummy takes it from him and whirrs away. Tony angles himself so he had one eye peeking out and his body out of view as he tries to spot Doctor Potts.

He can see the bed and part of the room beyond, but no Doctor. Suspicious, Tony closes the door again and speak. "Still out there?"

No answer. Tony waits a while and cautiously comes out, finding the bedroom empty, but laid out on the bed are some sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Hastily he pulls them on and is about to go downstairs when a wave of fatigue hits. Tony sways a little, and leans over, bracing his hands against the mattress, not sure of what to do when Jarvis speaks.

"Doctor Potts suggests you go back to bed and rest, sir."

"Doctor Potts," Tony snaps, "is a pushy trespasser whom I did not authorize to treat me. I want that on the record."

"Your objections are noted, sir, however, I think in this case the physician's advice is . . . sound."

Tony tenses, because although he hates to admit it, what he really _wants _to do is crawl back into bed. But there's an interloper roaming around the house—HIS house—and this is NOT acceptable.

"Jarvis, what the hell is she doing?' Tony manages, still on his feet but regretting it.

"Doctor Potts is making chicken soup at the moment."

"What about my urine?"

"That is not an ingredient."

Tony manages a weak glare. "You know what I meant, smart-ass."

"The sample is currently undergoing analysis down in the Medical suite and the results will be available in a few hours," Jarvis replies.

"She's . . . beta two only, right?" Tony asks, giving in for the moment and stretching out on the bed. It feels good, and he closes his eyes.

Just for a minute.

"Beta Two," Jarvis agrees. "Doctor Potts does not have access to any of the basement levels or vaults."

Tony sleeps.

He dreams. Most of them fleeting wisps of things he understands and recognizes: a green scarf his mother used to wear; a field of California poppies, a box of broken mechanical pencils. At one point though, Tony dreams of doors, and darkness lingering in doorways.

_The darkness is framed in the doorway, but looms and grows, and starts to reach out in snaky tendrils grabbing for him. Tony can't move and the blackness bulges towards him, threatening to burst forward through the doorway and reach him---_

He wakes, heart pounding, and doesn't scream although the gasp through his parted lips is loud. Tony gives a shuddery sigh, relaxing by inches as he lets go of his terror and lets the nightmare ebb away.

Footsteps. Another surge of adrenaline shoots through Tony's system and he tries to sit up as they get louder. The woman—Doctor Potts—comes charging into his bedroom and he scrunches up, defenseless as she comes over to his side.

Alert.

"Are you all right Mr. Stark?" she asks, and her voice is so damned . . . concerned that Tony has to fight his first response.

"I'm _fine._ Why are you still here?" he snaps gruffly.

She doesn't answer, but reaches to touch his shoulder, and Tony flinches. Doctor Potts looks him over, and he can tell she's assessing him.

Trying not to stare at the Thing.

"I'm here because I'm not done taking care of you," she replies, and her voice is more professional now. "I still need a blood sample, and _you_ need to eat something, so I made some soup for you."

"Jarvis can run the venipuncture cuff down in the medical room," Tony snaps, "He always does it."

"I would prefer to do it myself since I'm here," she responds in a tone that makes it clear she's not going to let him win _this _one. "But first you need a meal. How long has it been since you've eaten?"

Tony thinks for a moment, distracted, and as he does, he notices for the first time that Doctor Potts is actually very . . . attractive. Tall, slender, light hair the color of new copper and pellucid blue eyes.

Then Tony starts to wonder where the hell he picked up an adjective like 'pellucid.'

"Yesterday. I think." He grudgingly admits, although he's not precisely sure.

"Mr. Stark consumed two hundred and fifty milliliters of Red Bull and ten Doublestuf Oreo cookies approximately thirty-eight hours ago," Jarvis tattles.

"I was busy," Tony defends himself against Doctor Potts' chiding stare. "It happens!"

"Are you strong enough to come downstairs, or would you like me to bring your soup up?" is all she asks, and again, her voice is gentle.

Tony hates pity.

Fucking _hates_ it.

He grits his teeth and throws the covers off, getting to his feet with a defiant push. "Save the damned bedside manner for someone else," he grunts, and with more bravado than steadiness, heads for the bedroom door, determined to eat and get this woman out of here.

It would be easier to stay pissed if the soup wasn't so damned good, Tony realizes sourly. But it's hot and fresh and the carrots are the way he likes them, in soft, chewable chunks. He slurps down spoonful after spoonful of it, and even breathes the steam in between mouthfuls.

He's not a soup fan, but this stuff is . . . well, damn it . . . good.

Tony notes that the doctor isn't eating. She is sitting with him at in the little breakfast nook, a bottle of water in front of her, playing with the cap. She spins it on the tabletop, letting it twirl until it dies down, then does it again.

"Stop that," Tony gripes. "It's annoying."

"Sorry," she replies and does stop, looking up guiltily. "Do you need more?"

"No," he grunts, already planning on having the rest of the pot later, after Doctor Nosy is gone. "Why did Obie send you? I mean _you_ specifically?"

Doctor Potts considers the question, and Tony watches her carefully as she finally answers. "I don't really know, except maybe it's because I work in the prosthetics lab."

'The one in Santa Cruz? Under Neil Cardenas?" Tony confirms sharply. He may not get out, but he's kept an eye on his empire, with special attention on those areas of personal interest. The Stark prosthetics lab is world-renown, and cutting edge in the science of re-habilitation. Tony's made sure of that.

"I'm about as far removed from Doctor Cardenas as you can get, Mr. Stark," Doctor Potts murmurs. "I've only been working there for seven months or so, mostly in the biochemistry interface lab. Why Mr. Stane chose me over so many other, better-qualified doctors is a mystery."

Tony gives her a long, slow look, taking her in from the top of her head down, and his mouth twists a bit. "I don't think it's as mysterious as you might think."

As he watches, she blushes, and Tony notes that it's a full, deep blush, rosy through her fair skin. Then he sees her eyes, and the fury in them makes him flinch back, so he rushes on, feeling a surge of panic. "Come ON; it's a well-established fact that Obadiah Stane is a ladies' man. I may be a shut-in, but even _I_ know that!"

"It's a vile insinuation," Doctor Potts tells him in a flat voice, and there's something sad in her tone too, something that tells Tony he's hit a particularly sensitive nerve. He waits a beat, not sure what to do, and from somewhere within him the apology rises, brought forth by that tone with its hint of hurt.

"Look, I'm sorry," Tony mutters, dropping his spoon into the empty bowl with a clatter. "It was a stupid thing to say. What do I know anyway, right? You still want my blood?"

"More than ever," she replies, and this time when Tony looks into her face he sees she's got the tiniest hint of a grin now. The relief that floods through him is huge, and he turns his face so she won't see it.

He's confused.


	3. Chapter 3

Pepper is confused. Out of all the scenarios she'd considered when driving up to Malibu, this particular one had never occurred to her. Tony Stark was supposed to be old and creepy and frail, a sort of West Coast Boo Radley haunting his mansion. She had harbored visions of a pale, bitter version of Charles Foster Kane creeping around mumbling to himself.

Not this trim, shaggy, bearded geek.

She'd been reassured when she found that the mansion was clean, and heartened when she'd discovered that Stark had interests and contacts to the outside world. Those were all good signs, indicative of sanity at the very least.

But the isolation bothers her. That, and the device in the man's chest. Pepper tries to study it surreptitiously, but Stark isn't accommodating, and neither is his omnipresent AI. No matter; she has a basic idea, and feels certain the lab might have some directional indicators of what the thing is. A pacemaker possibly, or an artificial heart—she can do the research.

More immediate on her list are the samples she now has from Stark, all three of them. The urine and blood are standard of course, but when she'd slipped into the bathroom earlier, Pepper stole his comb, wrapping it in a bit of toilet paper and slipping it into her purse. With luck there will be enough hair in it for testing as well.

Pepper doesn't like stealing, but she's worried about Stark, and the more information she can get, the better. She tries to justify it as being thorough. Stane *did* mandate that she take care of him, and Pepper is trying.

Too bad Stark is less than cooperative.

"Come on, come on," he huffs at her, and she tightens the rubber strap around his upper arm more tightly. The muscles stand out along his forearm, and the vein at the crook of his elbow is thick and blue under the skin.

"You may feel—"

"—a slight pinch, yeah, yeah, I know," Stark mutters impatiently. "Can we get this over with?"

"I don't want to hurt you," Pepper tells him, and Stark looks at her curiously, his bearded jaw working back and forth.

"Why do you care?" comes his blunt question. "Seriously?"

"Because you're my patient," Pepper replies in exasperation.

"Oh come on; I'm a pain in the ass for you, and you're the same for me," Stark assures her. "You're here because Obie wants to make sure I don't die before deadline."

"I thought Mr. Stane works for _you,"_ Pepper comments, deftly sliding the needle in, both physically and metaphorically. She watches his jaw tighten.

"Obie does," Stark mutters, looking away. "But it's . . . complicated."

Pepper guesses that it is. She's dying to know why Tony Stark is here, locked away. He seems healthy enough, but his demeanor makes it clear that he's not about to answer her questions, no matter how delicately phrased.

"When are you . . . oh—" he murmurs, watching as Pepper withdraws the needle and presses a gauze square to this arm. "I didn't even *feel* that."

"Thank you," Pepper smiles, and sets the vials into a foam holder. "I'm guessing that a quick physical is out."

"You guess right."

"Then since you need more rest, I'd suggest you head back to bed and sleep, Mr. Stark."

He gives a grunt and rises up from the chair, blinking a little. It's later afternoon now, and Pepper is anxious to get the blood back to the lab, where she can run the tests in privacy, but she's reluctant to leave, too. She feels pity for this solitary man, rattling around in his mansion, and despite his defensive commentary, Pepper thinks there's more to him than just what she sees.

In the case of his chest, a _lot _more.

"You can take two Ibuprofen every eight hours for fever; um, Jarvis, I expect you to monitor Mr. Stark for that, all right?"

"I have been programmed to do so," the AI assures her. Stark holds the gauze down as Pepper tapes it in place, then yawns a little.

"Okay, I'll sleep once I've checked on a few things." He moves towards the door and Pepper follows him, feeling her hackles rise a bit at this effort at compromise.

"Mr. Stark, you need to _rest._ A fever as high as the one you had is dangerous enough; you don't want to risk a relapse."

Stark is speeding up now, heading towards a staircase that leads downward. A staircase Pepper hadn't noticed before. She can hear his bare feet slapping on the steps and moves to follow.

"Jarvis, open sesame," Stark sings out, and at the bottom, slips through a glass door which closes so quickly behind him that Pepper feels the breeze gust her face. Beyond the glass she sees a huge . . . . Warehouse slash office slash workshop. It's enormous, stretching out as far as she can see; a cavern carved into the cliff the house sits on. She pushes on the door but it doesn't budge, and the intimidating keypad and scanner don't give Pepper much hope for entry. She glances upwards. "Jarvis?"

"I regret to inform you that you do not have authorization to enter this part of the facilities, Doctor Potts," comes the voice.

Beyond the glass, Mr. Stark is perching on a stool, using a tabletop computer and studiously ignoring her. Pepper raps on the glass, aware before she does that he's not going to respond; of course not.

"Mr. Stark!" she tries anyway. True to form, he keeps his focus on the tabletop. Pepper realizes he really could use a cut; from this angle his hair is hanging past his shoulders.

She sighs and crosses her arms. "How long is he going to stay in there?" she asks, not expecting an answer, but Jarvis speaks up in reply.

"Mr. Stark has been known to spend upwards to several days in his sanctum sanctorum, Doctor Potts."

"I expected that," she admits. "Is there any way to persuade him to rest?"

"Mr. Stark is a highly stubborn individual with a marked disregard for his general health," Jarvis replies. "I suspect he will in fact follow your suggestion once you depart the premises."

"All right," Pepper agrees reluctantly. "I've done what I can, and Mr. Stane will have to be happy with that I suppose, although I'd like to be able to check on him in a day or so—sooner if my tests find anything unusual."

"Those procedures are acceptable within the parameters of your Beta Two status, Doctor Potts. I will co-ordinate the real-time feed of Mr. Stark's vital signs to your PDA." There is a pause, and then Jarvis speaks again. "The feed is established; the app is now on your device."

"Thank you," Pepper murmurs, and with a last, stern glare through the glass, she turns and heads back up the stairs. She gathers up her bag and checks to make sure that the soup and groceries are put away, then heads out the front doors to her car, surprised at how cool it is outside. A breeze blows off the Pacific, and even the huge house can't block all of it. She shivers and climbs into her car, swinging it around the curve of the driveway, and heads back down the long and slightly desolate road back to PCH.

Pepper heads straight for Santa Cruz and the lab, driving carefully through sunset and reaching it at dusk. Clea the security guard waves her through the main doors, and Pepper waves back her thanks, taking the elevator to the lower levels of the building.

It's quiet and the lights are dim here as Pepper makes her way to the east wing labs and sets up Tony Stark's blood sample for the basic tests and screenings. She works quickly, carefully, and marks the samples with dummy code numbers just to be on the safe side.

Pepper runs the other tube she's smuggled away through the basic urinalysis as well, and adds a drug screen, then takes the comb out of her purse and gathers some of the dark hair from it.

She realizes her heart rate is up, and that every noise in the lab seems magnified now that she's here by herself. Forcing a calm she doesn't feel, Pepper sends the hair to the DNA lab, where Collins will process it for her as a favor.

By the time Pepper is done, it's nearly eleven, and the building is even quieter. She passes a sleepy Clea on the way out, and her cell phone rings. The number is Stane's, but the message is a woman's voice.

An artificial voice.

"You have a meeting with Mr. Stane at nine o'clock, Doctor Potts," the voice tells her, and hangs up. Blinking, Pepper lets this register, and then she's out into the cool night, hurrying to her car.

She doesn't fall asleep for a long time.

By eight forty-eight the next morning, Pepper is waiting outside Obadiah Stane's office on the top floor of Stark Industries, nervous as hell and trying not to show it. Mr. Stane's secretary, a statuesque raven-haired goddess named Delilah is coordinating her boss's schedule through a headset, and her array of computers and monitors on her circular desk are something out of a science fiction novel, sleek and fast.

On the dot of nine, Delilah looks over at Pepper and throatily announces, "Mr. Stane will see you now."

Pepper gets up and walks to the double doors, pulling one open and slipping inside. She looks around, trying to keep from trembling too much.

It's a massive office, done in the finest quality leathers and rich woods, with million dollar artwork on the walls, a stunning view of Marina Del Rey and beyond it, the Pacific. But Pepper can't really see the view, because it's blocked by the bald, bearded man rising from behind the desk. He gets to his feet, and even though Pepper is tall, Obadiah Stane has at least five inches on her easily.

"Doctor Potts," he rumbles in a deceptively soft voice. "So good you could make it."

He comes around from behind his desk and holds out a hand; instinctively Pepper lets hers be engulfed by his warm, strong grip. She fights the urge to yank her fingers away when he squeezes lightly.

"Mr. Stane," Pepper manages without stuttering. His gaze takes her in and the sensation of being a rabbit in the sights of a wolf is hard to shake.

"So, you went out to see our boy. Tell me all about it," he murmurs, letting her hand go as he waves Pepper towards a club chair on one side of the room. She reluctantly sits; she'd been hoping the discussion would be a short one, but clearly Stane has different ideas. Pepper clears her throat.

"Well, Mr. Stark has H1N1," she begins quietly. "He had a fairly elevated fever when I first arrived, but we were able to break it a few hours later with analgesics and some prophylactic measures."

Stane settles into another chair angled towards hers and leans forward, on the edge of her personal space, which makes Pepper want to squirm a bit. "Prophylactic?" he asks, a hint of mild salaciousness in his gaze.

Pepper hastily pastes on a bland smile. "Sorry, that's doctor-speak. I used some ice packs to help cool him a bit. I also saw to it that he ate something nutritious."

"I see," Stane murmurs. "How do you think he got it? I'm sure you're aware that his . . . social contacts are fairly limited these days."

Pepper is ready for this, though. "Well, if he sends out for pre-prepared meals as I noted he does, the chain of contamination is potentially there. A sneeze on a pizza box, a cough on a Chinese food carton—the influenza virus can survive exposure for a remarkably long time."

"I see," Stane replies again, and keeps staring at her. "And what did you think of him, on a general basis?"

Pepper has only a second to think, and in that tiny frame of time she knows that a huge, dangerous trap looms on the edge of her next words. Whatever she says now will determine whether or not she'll be staying at Stark Industries, or be shipped off to some distant research post in Ulaanbaatar.

Or worse.

She manages another smile, making it slightly distasteful. "He's . . . um, not very sociable, is he?"

Stane chuckles, but his eyes are still sharp. "No, I'm afraid not. Tony, well—he's a brilliant man, but he's never been anyone's idea of a charming host. It's a damned shame about his agoraphobia, but since he won't get therapy, what can I do? Tell me, did you see that device on his chest?"

Another warning prickle runs up Pepper's spine, and she gives a dismissive shrug. "I did, briefly. Some sort of pacemaker, right? I didn't have much of a chance to look at it since I wanted to get his fever down. His blood test shows he's a little anemic, and his urinalysis says that he's dehydrated too."

"I'm not surprised," Stane murmurs. "So, he's on the mend?"

"Yes," Pepper manages to make it sound off-hand. "He'll need a B12 shot and some vitamins down the line. I can prescribe a good brand that Stark Pharmaceuticals puts out."

"Keeping it in the company," Stane chuckles, "I like a loyal employee."

Pepper says nothing; it's well-known what else Stane likes, and the way he's eyeing her legs makes her want to shudder. The rumors about Obadiah Stane are the stuff of legend, and range from the outlandish beliefs that he worships Satan and eats babies to the more sinister whispers about his outré sexual deviances. He seems to relish in his slightly notorious reputation, and being alone with him now has Pepper more than a little on edge.

"Doctor Potts—Virginia. May I call you Virginia?" he asks without expecting any denial. She nods, nervously and he continues. "I'd like to take you . . . into my confidence. For a number of years now, I've been watching out for Tony, and frankly, it's been difficult."

She make a little noise of agreement, and Stane rolls on, rising up to loom over her a moment before moving to a sideboard and reaching for a cigar from the mahogany humidor there. "Tony is a brilliant guy, but he's a pain in the ass as well. He's been a total head case ever since the death of his parents, and because I'm fond of the kid I've coddled him along, hoping he'd come around. As you saw, it's just not going to happen. Now, I do my bit and go see him on a regular basis, but I know he needs more face to face contact than just gruff old me. The kid needs more of a . . . human touch. You understand my meaning?"

Pepper is starting to. She stares up at Stane, aware of an inky undercurrent in the conversation now.

Insinuation.

Suggestion.

"You . . . want someone to keep an eye on him," she quavers, but Stane's smile tells her she's hit the nail on the head. He strolls back and leans over her chair.

"Exactly! I knew you were smart," Stane nods, lighting up the cigar. He puffs to get it going, and then adds, "I hope you'll forgive me; it's been a long trip back and I've been craving a good Cohiba the whole time."

Pepper fights the urge to cough. She wants this meeting over; she wants to get away from Obadiah Stane and his polite air of intimate menace.

Oh yes, he's the cobra, she's the rabbit.

"Anyway," he drawls, "I'd appreciate it when you do your follow-up, if you'd make it a point to talk to him; draw him out a little."

Pepper says nothing, but nods. She hates the fact that Stane's looming over her now, well-aware that his body language is forcing her into a submissive position here. Thinking quickly, she makes a distasteful face.

"He wasn't very pleased to see me the first time, Mr. Stane."

"Let me handle that," Stane assures her. "We'll just tell him you're there to get him healthy; Tony will listen to me. In the meantime, I need _you_ to make sure he's not only healthy, but . . . productive. Working. Work is always the best therapy, right?"

"Right," Pepper agrees. She's suspicious, but now Stane is staring at her, trying to look down her blouse. "Uh, I don't know if my supervisor let me take the time--"

"You'll be under _me_," Stane murmurs, and this time Pepper definitely hears the insinuation in his tone. "I'll put out the authorization for a part-time special project and we'll be a cozy little team of two, Doctor Potts. Like I said, I _like_ loyal employees here at Stark Industries. We take care of each other here."

His cell phone rings, and smoothly, Stane reaches for Pepper's hand. "Hold this for me," he orders, and puts the cigar into her fingers as he answers his call.

Pepper stares, too stunned to react. Stane growls into his phone, his voice one of restrained annoyance.

She doesn't listen to the conversation; Pepper is frozen, staring at the cigar in her fingers. The end that's been in Stane's mouth is glistening wet, and the sight disgusts her. The smoke curls around her hand, and Pepper knows the smell of it will linger in her hair and clothes for some time to come.

The man has just scent marked her, she realizes with shame.

She looks up just as Stane ends his conversation; he leans over to take the cigar and slips it into his mouth with a slow arrogance, eyes locked on hers. He puffs and pulls it out again, slowly.

"So, Doctor Potts, don't let me hold you back. Go ahead and see Tony tomorrow; give him that shot and check up on him, then let me know how he's doing. Delilah will put you through to me any time of the day or night. Are you good with this?"

Wordlessly, Pepper hesitates a fraction of a second, then slowly nods.

All the way back to the lab, she thinks about deals with the devil.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony doesn't make it quite back to bed. He intends to go there at about eleven but detours into the kitchen for the rest of the soup, and flops down on the sofa after grudgingly downing the Motrin that Jarvis nagged him about.

Now it's two in the morning and he's still awake in the dark, listening.

There are noises late at night, especially in a big house on a remote cliff side. The wind whistles around the windows and moans along the headland. There's a steady susurration of the waves down below against the shore, and the creaks and groans of the house itself against the rock.

Tony is listening to something else; something nobody else can hear. His eyes closed and his lashes are wet.

"_Dad, just listen to me! I know what I'm doing!"_

"_Tony, this discussion is over! Until you're eighteen, I'm still in charge of you and that's that! Don't talk to me about any more the Academy, you're a *Stark* damn it, and meant for bigger things!"_

"_Howard darling, watch the road, Howard!---"_

Behind his closed lids he sees ghosts; the faint images of his parents in a fluttering collection of memories that never focus anymore, but remain soft-edged and elusive. It's as if by remembering them so often the handling of the memory fades them, like sunlight on photographs. Tony hears his mother's voice in the depths of his mind, her sweet and stern voices, her old Italian lullabies. He hears his father's long rambles about politics, and engineering and destiny; his occasional tirades and quiet humming.

They never address him. Tony pleads in his thoughts, begging for forgiveness, grasping his guilt and wanting nothing more than for them to tell him it's all right, and that the accident was simply that—an accident. But in his head, Howard and Maria wander through those seventeen years of his life, apart and together, and never, never speak directly to him.

And he knows why.

Tony opens his eyes and wearily gets up, brushing his long hair out of his face and heading for the medical suite. He reaches for the restricted dispenser and wordlessly, Jarvis lets it drop a single capsule into his trembling palm. Tony dry swallows it and walks slowly up the stairs. He has the timing down to an art, and as he reaches the Master bedroom, the pill's contents begin to work. Wobbly now, Tony drops onto the mattress.

One of the 'bots comes in a few minutes later, to pull a blanket over his still form.

By mid-morning, Tony is sluggish and warm again; not as bad as before, but his energy level has flat-lined, and along with everything else, the fact that there's no more soup is the rotten cherry on top of his depression.

He thinks about Doctor Potts. He thinks about her legs, because they are definitely one of her best features, and he's always had a weakness for lovely legs. Tony wonders if Doctor Potts has ever modeled, and if she has a boyfriend.

Probably.

That depresses him further, but he lets his thoughts drift to images of Doctor Potts waiting for her boyfriend. The slow stir of scenes in his head drift into the sensual, and in his imagination, he pictures her slowly stripping, letting her clothes drop to the floor.

"Jarvis," he croaks, "five minute timeout."

His right hand slips into his sweatpants, and Tony groans to himself, lost in the luscious imagery.

Now_ he's_ the boyfriend, ohyeah, sitting back watching, and it's a hell of a show his lissome redhead is putting on for him. Slow strokes grow to steady ones. Under those professional garments of hers are items straight out of a Jezebel online catalog: tiny opaque panties, a flirty black garter belt and a belly chain of such fine gold that it's more like a glittering thread hanging off those trim hips . . .

He's breathing hard now, and knows he should probably grab some tissues *before* things get critical, but the fantasy is too compelling and moments later, Tony gives himself over to orgasm as he pictures Doctor Potts slithering out of her panties for him.

Slumping back and grinning, Tony figures his morning isn't a total loss.

Then Jarvis speaks up. "Doctor Potts is at the main gate, Mr. Stark. She will be at the house in eleven minutes and sixteen seconds."

Panic. He tenses, rolls out of bed and nearly falls as he scrambles to the bathroom, then races back to collect the damp Kleenex in the bedside waste basket. Three hard flushes send swirling it down the toilet, and Tony turns to the shower, barking orders. "Jarvis, medium hot, and have Dummy take my, um, sweats to the laundry, pronto!"

He stumbles into the shower, nearly slipping, and frantically scrubs his groin, feeling a sense of alarm and humiliation racing through his system. The afterglow is soaped away, and he leans against the wall, fighting his own pulse.

_Mustn't panic_, Tony reminds himself. _Mustn't panic_.

The mantra helps a little, along with the hot water. By the time he's done, Tony is almost calm, although he checks the bedroom carefully before stepping out in his towel.

As he comes down the staircase, he hears her in the kitchen, and prepares himself to face her, hoping for nonchalance.

She looks up at him with concern. "You should be in bed, Mr. Stark."

Tony notes she's unpacking bags, but there are Tupperware containers coming out, not groceries. It's thinner than the stuff he remembers, and in different shapes than the bowls his mother had.

"I feel okay," he defends himself. "Did Obie send you back?"

She doesn't answer right away, and finishes putting containers into the fridge before coming over to him. "Pulse."

Tony extends his arm and she presses her fingers against the tendons of his wrist, checking her watch at the same time. Her lips purse. "A little fast. Are you feeling nervous?"

She's touching him, and her cool fingers on his skin feel good.

"I'm not nervous," he lies, and curses himself mentally as his pulse jumps once more. "What's in the bowls?"

She blushes. Tony is fascinated, and notes the spread of soft pink across her face, under her very light freckles. "Oh, I, um, had a few leftovers that I thought you might like. I'm not much of a cook, but I always make too much, and your blood test results showed that you're um, slightly anemic, so it would be a good idea to eat more spinach . . ."

"No." Tony balks. "I take vitamins."

"Yes, but your diet has been somewhat . . . narrow?" Doctor Potts points out patiently. "I know you're not a candidate for rickets or beriberi Mr. Stark, but some variety in your diet would be immediately beneficial. What vitamins are you talking currently?"

Tony scowls. "Stark brand of course. They come with the monthly shipments; Jarvis has the invoices. Not _all_ those bowls are spinach, right?"

"No," Doctor Potts agrees, holding one up. "_This _is Chita Rivera chunky guacamole."

The word 'guacamole' catches his interest immediately, and Tony makes a grab for the bowl, but Doctor Potts is faster and pulls it back. "Not for breakfast, Mr. Stark. And not with your fingers."

"It's my _house_," Tony whines, "And you just said you brought it for me." Part of him is horrified at the way he sounds, petulant and childish.

Another part of him just wants the damned guacamole.

She's striving for patience, he can see it in the set of her lips as she puts the bowl into the refrigerator and turns back to him. "Mr. Stark, you are recovering from the flu. You need at least another day of bed rest, fluids, and analgesics. I need you to cooperate or . . ."

He can't resist rising to the implied threat. It's sending an odd thrill through him, this weird . . . bickering. When Obie comes to visit sometimes they bicker, but not like this. Generally he and Obie talk about various projects, and scarf down pizza and beer. Sometimes Obie challenges him to a game of chess or poker, but not so much anymore. Sometimes when Obie comes by, Tony can tell he'd rather be somewhere else.

And sometimes there's the heavy musk of a woman on him.

Tony mentally shakes off that thought. "Or else what?"

"Or else I'll do a full physical work-up on you right now, complete with prostate exam, stool collection and anything else that comes to mind," Doctor Potts tells him firmly.

Tony shoots her a baleful look. "Fine. It's just guacamole. No big loss."

But it is, actually. Tony remembers guacamole. It's one of those peculiar things—he never thinks of making it, but when it comes with the Mexican plate he sometimes orders, he wolfs it down.

It used to be served—green, thick and festive-- at the parties his parents threw, ages ago, and Tony remembers the lights, and laughter and music.

Guacamole.

"And anyway, my mom _knew_ Chita Rivera," he adds tauntingly. "I could just call her up and ask for the recipe you know."

"Really?" Doctor Potts sounds half awed, half skeptical. "Okay then. When you call Ms. Rivera up, tell her _I_ leave the cilantro out. In the meantime, what have you had for breakfast?"

One reluctant bowl of oatmeal later, and Tony is back in bed, fuming a bit. It doesn't help that Jarvis has taken the Doctor's side and refuses him access to the workshop. Sure he feels crappy, but he's worked through worse before, and having Doctor Potts around is making him uncomfortable.

"I have a _deadline _to meet," he grouses, crossing his arms over the Thing and glaring at her while she checks his ears.

"Have you been living up here all this time?" she asks, and her tone is soft, but steady. Tony gives her a sidelong glance, instantly wary.

He doesn't want to talk about it.

There's nothing to say, as far as Tony's concerned, and not even someone who can make good soup is going to change that. Nobody bothers him, nobody bothers _with_ him and he likes it that way.

And the mansion is plenty big. He's got room to run and think and build and breathe. Tony doesn't _need_ to go anywhere: not the hospital, not the therapist's not anywhere. It can all come to_ him_ as far as he's concerned.

"What's that got to do with my ears?"

"Nothing," she admits, moving to feel his neck. "Hmm, glands are a little swollen, but nothing dangerous. How's your throat?"

"Fine," Tony grouses. It's a ticklish line now, because she's so close, and the scent of her is filling his nose, adding a new layer of awareness of her. She smells like vanilla, and fabric softener, and some sort of womanly scent.

God, it's more potent than any imagery of her in a garter belt, and Tony files it away, for later.

"Throat's fine. Are we done?"

"Reflexes next," she continues. "I ask because you picked up the flu from something. Since Mr. Stane doesn't have the flu currently, that means that your contamination traveled here by an alternate route. I suspect one of your fast food containers."

Her reflex hammer taps just under his knee; Tony feels his leg twitch in response. _Most_ of him is close to responding, despite his mid-morning session of personal time.

"I thought flu was airborne."

"It is, but people have been known to sneeze _on_ things, Mr. Stark," she tells him. "According to your tests, you're a little bit anemic, and as of yesterday, a little dehydrated. I'd like you to drink at least twenty-two ounces of water or sports drink between now and bedtime. I can't _make_ you eat any particular food, but I'd strongly _suggest_ that you try to get in some of the cream of spinach tarts."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Tony blurts out bluntly.

The pause looms, as huge and awkward as a fart on a first date.

Doctor Potts quietly packs her reflex hammer away. "I don't think that's relevant at the moment, Mr. Stark." She doesn't look at him, and the air is thick with embarrassment.

Tony watches her walk towards the door, knowing damned well that she's leaving and probably never coming back, and the sudden impulsive _need _to stop her forces the words from his throat. "Yes," he calls out after a few seconds. "I've been living up here for the last two decades. By . . . myself."

He watches her turn to face him again, and he braces himself, expecting the inevitable questions about why and how and what to spill out of her because it's not just the Thing that makes him a freak, no.

Tony understands he's a sick man.

But instead she pulls up her shoulders, and her mouth twists in a wry pursing of her lips. She hesitates. Then, very softly, Doctor Potts murmurs, "Yes. Well, sort of. We're . . . trying to work things out."

He struggles to sit up, rising on his elbows. "Did you see Obie? He _was_ the one to send you, wasn't he?"

Again, her mouth twists up. It's a lovely mouth, Tony realizes, and when she smiles it makes her face light up.

But she's not smiling now. Instead, she nervously wraps her hands around the handle of her bag and looks away from him. "Yes. He and I had a . . . discussion this morning concerning you, Mr. Stark. He'd like me to monitor your recovery and progress on a semi-regular basis."

Her language is stilted and formal; unlike the easy conversation they've been having up to this point, and Tony feels slightly anxious as a hundred ugly scenarios cross his mind.

"Obie . . . he's uh, gruff sometimes, but he means well. I know he's got his faults and I know there are those uhh, stories about him, but if he's sending you here, then he wouldn't . . . I mean . . ."Tony trails off, red in the face and not sure what the hell he's saying OR what he means.

Because Obie sure as hell _would_ Tony realizes miserably. Obie has spent years insinuating and bragging about his indulgences in what he calls 'company perks.' Worse, Tony knows he himself has passively condoned it, even envied it at times, and all because he's never had to face up to anyone involved before.

More humiliating silence.

"You need to rest," Doctor Potts suddenly repeats, clinging to the advice like a mantra, her words slightly brittle.

Cowed now, Tony nods and slides off his elbows, grateful for the blanket, and the excuse to sleep. Still, his concern prods him once more. "Are you . . . leaving?"

"Yes," she tells him, and her voice is lighter once again, more like her natural tone. "It's Wednesday, Mr. Stark. I'll be back sometime on Friday morning. I _will_ be checking to see if you're drinking enough, so be warned. Please rest."

"Okay," Tony agrees, and from somewhere he remembers to add, "Thank you."

_That_ startles her; and Tony grins as she shoots him a surprised look from the doorway. Impishly he can't resist adding, "But you can take the spinach with you."

He liked her exasperated chuckle, and listens to it as she leaves, the sound of it rising from the circular stairs.

**Chita Rivera Chunky Guacamole**

½ medium white onion, finely chopped

2 or 3 Serrano Peppers, stemmed, seeded and finely chopped

1 large, ripe tomato, cored and finely chopped

1 garlic clove, peeled and finely chopped

10 sprigs of Cilantro, finely chopped (optional for those of us prone to heartburn)

3 medium ripe avocados (Haas are best)

½ teaspoon of salt

Juice of ½ of a lime

In a medium bowl, mix the finely chopped onion, peppers, tomato, garlic and cilantro. Close to the time you are going to serve the dip, halve the avocados lengthwise from end to end around the pits. Twist each half off of the pit and scoop them out into the bowl. Using either your hand or a fork, roughly mash the avocado pulp with the other ingredients to make a chunky and thick mass.

Enjoy the goodness.


	5. Chapter 5

Pepper makes it back to the lab and throws herself into catching up. There is a department meeting, and then patient appointments, three arthroscopic reviews and some backlogged charting to tackle.

There are also some test results she wants desperately to check, but Pepper holds back until after six, when most of the department is gone and only a few other stragglers are around. As she waits for privacy, she cleans out her mailbox, finding a memo that Stane has sent out to her and to Peter Bartull, her supervisor, outlining the supposed part-time project that justifies her visits to Mr. Stark.

Pepper notes that Stane has called it an 'individualized outreach program,' and has not named Stark at all in it. He has also been careful to note that her time is to be billed to his accounting office and not the lab. This worries her.

There is also an encrypted email from Stane. She clicks on it and after being prompted to enter her employment code and social security number, his message begins, in video format. Pepper recognizes his desk and the backdrop of the marina, but again, Stane's presence dominates most of the screen as he begins to speak.

"Doctor Potts. As you can see from my memo, your future visits to Tony are now fully sanctioned and settled as far as anyone at Stark Labs are concerned. I don't need to remind a pretty gal like you that this is a _private_ initiative now do I? Confidentiality and all that. So. We keep in touch, and would appreciate some sort of schedule of your visits to our boy. Oh, and don't worry about sending me any of the test results; Jarvis automatically forwards copies of all of them to me personally. If this arrangement helps to get Tony back to his productive self, I might see my way clear to making sure your little department gets a bit more funding this coming year."

She watches, flinching a little as Stane flashes a smile at the screen and adds, "I look forward to debriefing with you, Doctor Potts. Soon."

The video ends, and Pepper can't close the email fast enough, clicking on the mouse with frantic taps of her finger. She rises from her desk, pacing away for a moment to regain her composure, thinking hard.

Stane mentioned getting the test results, and Pepper knows that Jarvis ran both a urinalysis and blood panel at the house.

But Pepper has also run her own tests, here at the lab, and now it's time to take a look at the results. She sits down again at her computer and logs onto the lab results page, checking for the dummy numbers and after a moment, she finds them.

Pepper looks over the blood results first.

Anemic, yes, but just slightly. Not a surprise, given her patient's less than varied food choices. His white blood cells are also bit elevated and Pepper wonders if it's related to the device in his chest, although if he's had it for as many years as he seems to indicate, then he should be acclimated to it. She makes a note to try and get a closer look at it. Maybe Yang in Cardiology has some information on the latest developments in pacemakers . . . if she chats him up tomorrow . . .

Pepper clicks over to the urinalysis, and one line on the Triage 8 jumps out at her. She has been half-expecting it, but seeing it confirmed sends a surge of panic through Pepper, and she leans forward to read the number again, mentally breaking down exactly how much it represents, percentage-wise.

A sudden sound from the hall outside spooks the _hell _out of her, and Pepper clicks off the monitor, waiting tensely in the semi-darkness for long moments. She hears the janitor's cart roll by and breathes again when it does.

She prints one copy, then deliberately deletes the lab test results, making sure they're gone before turning off her computer and closing up her office for the night.

It's after eight when she arrives at her house, and Lou greets her at the door, indignant and loving, his heavy bulk brushing hard against her calf. Pepper pets him. "Sorry, oh fat and fluffy one, but I was unavoidably delayed. Tuna?"

Tuna is highly agreeable to Lou, who trots ahead of her into the kitchen. Pepper smells a hint of Kung Pao in the air and looks through the doorway to see several cartons sitting on the counter, fragrant and warm. She manages a smile she doesn't really feel as she opens a can for the furry pillow circling her feet.

Somewhere in the back of the house, a toilet flushes, a faucet splashes, and then footsteps head her way. Pepper looks at the man coming in the doorway. He manages a smile too.

"I didn't know if you had eaten or not," he intones, "So I stopped by Won Tons."

"Thanks," she tells him, "I appreciate that."

"Of course, if you'd _called," _he chides, but Pepper gives a long sigh and turns from the cartons to face him.

"Please don't start, Phil. I've had a _long_ day and I'm grateful you picked up dinner, but can we just eat in peace?"

"Sure," Phil agrees in his calm way. "Sure."

They eat. A year ago they'd be talking; sharing their days and making little jokes the whole time, but now they're both quiet, and Pepper picks at her food, pre-occupied. Across from her, Phil slips pieces of slivered chicken under the table for Lou.

"Did you pick up the dry cleaning?" Phil asks, and Pepper shoots him a guilty look, which is answer enough.

"Sorry. I . . . had an errand that took me out of the area and totally forgot," Pepper apologizes. "I'm so sorry—I'll nab it tomorrow."

"It's all right," Phil assures her. "Where did you go?"

Pepper hesitates, and to cover it, clears her throat.

She lies. "Had to go to that Orthotics lab in Topanga Canyon. Peter insisted I talk with the director there in person."

Pepper doesn't want to tell him about the mansion out on the cliff, and how the house talks, or about the man inside it who is a prisoner behind chemical and psychological bars.

Phil wouldn't understand it. Phil Coulson is a man of forthright honesty, and while that's a wonderful attribute, Pepper knows it makes him impatient with the shades of gray that make up most other people's lives.

Including hers.

They do the dishes, and climb into bed. Pepper feels him roll towards her, and she reaches for him, partially out of guilt, and partially out of a need for his body. He's warm and calming; after Stane's video, Pepper needs the physical comfort more than she wants to admit.

They kiss, they touch for a while.

He hesitates before reaching in the nightstand drawer for a condom, but Pepper nods firmly and Phil reluctantly slips it on, his disappointment a small flicker in his blue eyes. Quietly, sweetly he makes love to her.

Pepper closes her eyes, stroking his naked back, and with a rush of excited shame, she thinks of another man, and imagines what it would be like to feel his beard against the crook of her neck, his hungry cock thrusting into her.

She comes, hard, caught between release and remorse as the waves of pleasure roll up from between her hips.

It takes a while to fall asleep.

For two days, Pepper is a good little drone. She works diligently in her corner of the lab, keeping up with all the tasks assigned to her, and doesn't draw attention to herself. It's easy since she's never been one for the limelight, and Stark employees aren't encouraged to socialize much anyway. She makes a point, though, of talking to Yang in Cardiology, and of doing a little lunchtime research on her own.

Yang hasn't heard of an external wearable artificial heart, but mentions that there were some promising lines of synthetic muscle and tissue being created from pigs a few decades back. "Some of the early work here had to do with it, but the research got shelved when we lost our lead doctor on it, and animal rights groups started bombing labs," Yang admits. "I think most of it's been farmed out overseas now."

Pepper also has been reading about the Starks, and Tony in particular. There are _hundreds _of articles, a few written in the years just prior to the accident with most of them peaking in the following two years afterwards. The sheer number is overwhelming, and Pepper feels like she's trying to chisel a glacier. Most of the time she skims, and by late Thursday she has a better idea of how Tony Stark began.

The facts are there: The first family of rocketry and science, with genius evident in the genetics on both sides. The love story of Maria De la Rosa Carbonelli and Howard Edward Stark played out in the early tabloids and Society pages, followed by the wedding of the decade, and five years later, the birth of the scion, Anthony Edward Stark.

The newspaper photos are grainy, but Pepper thinks that Maria is quite lovely, and that her toddler son is the epitome of cute, even in his good clothes. There are other photos taken at various events, and through them all Pepper grasps that the Starks made the *attempt* at a normal life in the fishbowl.

Dutifully the media reports on their achievements and triumphs, their foibles and follies. Pepper reads about Maria's slow withdrawal from public events, with 'fatigue' cited more and more often as the reason. She reads about Howard and the company outbidding Boeing for military contracts and developing missile guidance systems, and about teenaged Tony's triumphs in engineering at school.

And on Thursday, Pepper reads about Obadiah Stane.

Most of the stories speak of his friendship with Howard, and of his steady support as the number two man at Stark Industries. He's the one whose name is linked to starlets and models, the one photographed at nightclubs and golf courses. He's genial and loyal, coming across as a strong right arm to Howard and the business.

A few mention Stane in not so savory terms, but never accuse him outright of misdeeds or misdoings, they merely hint in the best of journalistic tradition, that he's no saint.

Pepper then reads the bare facts about the rain-slicked coastal road and the long dark hour before help finally arrived to pry Tony and the bodies of his parents out from the horrific wreckage. Reading about the accident takes Pepper back. She remembers hearing about it at school, remembers her mother shaking her head and promising to light a candle at church for young Tony.

It may have helped. Tony's recovery is mentioned in guarded terms, with Stane holding a few press conferences to update the news. Pepper is fascinated at how in hindsight, it's easy to see how seamlessly Stane slips into the leadership position of Stark Industries. After a year, it seems natural to see Stane's face in the articles about SI, and the few stories about Tony only list that he's still recovering.

For a while there's speculation that the pristine mansion might be sold, but finally there is an article in the LA Times that mentions Tony moving into it, and the media camps out at the gate for months, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

They never do, and the few bold photographers who attempt to sneak over the fence are jolted with enough voltage to leave them unconscious on the ground. Word apparently gets out that visitors are Not Welcome, and the paparazzi eventually move on to other, less dangerous subjects.

From that point on, most of the stories dealing with Tony Stark are either retrospectives, or speculation, and all interview requests are turned down. Stark records annual statements for his employees and those are released in-house, but they never contain anything beyond a show of support for them and the company. Even after video becomes the medium of choice for everyone else, the yearly statements remain vocal recordings only.

Still, Stark Industries thrives under Stane's leadership, and the weapons division in particular takes world prominence. Missiles, rockets, lasers, advanced tracking and propulsion breakthroughs happen regularly, and the investors are very, very happy. Stane lunches with the President, and takes tea with royalty.

Pepper shakes her head, feeling a quiet sense of anger building up. She didn't think much of Stane when she first came to work for Stark Industries, but that indifference is rapidly changing to an active revulsion for the man. It's clear to her now that he's usurped Tony's rightful position, and worse than that, he's keeping Tony prisoner as well.

It's a dangerous thought. Pepper knows instantly she can't ever verbalize her suspicions, not if she wants to keep working at Stark Industries and certainly not if she wants to keep seeing Tony Stark.

And she does, Pepper realizes. There's something beyond his patient status that draws her to him. She's intrigued of course—who wouldn't be at the idea of meeting a reclusive billionaire? But there's more to it, and Pepper pulls back from analyzing that thought just yet.

Instead, she goes down to the pharmacy reference station and asks the intern there for several printouts, and tucks one particular request in the middle of all the others. Pepper picks them up, along with a bottle of Stark vitamins as well, and on the way home remembers belatedly about Phil's dry-cleaning. She manages to get his three suits before the shop closes, and brings everything home, only to find a note from him on the counter, telling her he's covering for another agent and he'll be out until Saturday.

Pepper doesn't admit she's relieved. Instead, she feeds Lou a small can of salmon, settles down on her sofa with a bottle of beer and a TV dinner, and reads the printout on the long-term side effects of Luminal abuse.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony feels better by Wednesday, and puts himself back to work downstairs, picking up the reins of his latest project with an improved mood. He has Jarvis crank up the music, and throws himself into work with good will, managing to finish up the second stage of a prototype in good time.

He deliberately comes upstairs around two for something to eat, grabs a bag of corn chips and pulls out the bowl of guacamole with a quiver of anticipation.

Oh it's good.

Tony deliberately slows down to savor it, enjoying the chunky texture and mingled flavors in a way he hasn't done with food in a long time. Cooking has no appeal for him; most recipes are written for bigger groups than one, and in Tony's case, it's depressing to have leftovers of the same stuff for a week or more.

For a moment he debates saving some of the homemade dip for Obie when he stops by later. Generally they order out, or Obie brings something when he comes out to the mansion, and Tony looks forward to it.

But he hesitates, and stares down into the bowl. Some part of Tony knows that if Obie sees this, it will bring up questions, and when Obie asks question, no matter how softly or humorously, he wants answers. In this case, the questions will be about Doctor Potts, and although Tony also knows he'll be getting some of those anyway, once Obie sees the guacamole, the questions will be . . . nosy.

And crude.

Tony hides the half-empty bowl in the vegetable crisper drawer, setting a bag of carrots over it. It's not lying, exactly, but he feels better with keeping it a secret.

There are deliveries throughout the afternoon, most of them left in the bin built on the backside of the brick column outside the gate. Jarvis analyzes each one and puts it on the underground pneumatic tube for delivery up to the workshop, kitchen or the landing upstairs. Tony sorts them out and makes sure that everything is accounted for, including the mail and the UPS boxes.

In the old days, deliveries were permitted to come through the gate and up to the door, but the distance was inconvenient, and more than once the delivery people were either spooked by their robotic reception at the door, or more often, weren't delivery people at all, forcing Tony to activate the sonic deterrent until they passed out, and then have Dummy or Butterfingers carry their limp forms out to the other side of the gate.

That worked well with investigative reporters, but Jehovah's Witnesses complained, so Tony revamped the delivery system into the one currently in use. It handles everything from fast food to large appliances. Occasionally larger deliveries, like engineering equipment are necessary and they get delivered by moving van, but they're always scheduled at two or three in the morning on holidays to avoid notice, and directed by Obie and Jarvis.

Tony is pleased to find another fan letter from Happy. He tucks it away for later reading.

He wraps up a few financial records for the books, works for a while on a sensor upgrade for Jarvis and feels the restless build-up of anticipation for Obie's arrival. Tony knows it's pathetic to be hyped for a weekly event, particularly one with a fairly set routine, but another part of him can't help but be happy.

A few minutes after five, Jarvis announces the arrival of the Bugatti Veyron outside. Tony moves to the edge of the foyer, fighting a tremble, eyes fixed on the door. He counts to himself, trying to relax, but his pulse is climbing.

He wants to walk down the hall all the way to the door. He _wants _to open it for Obie.

The knock comes, and for a moment everything freezes. Tony reaches out a shaky hand, but his feet stay still. After a long fifteen seconds, Jarvis softly speaks. "I will get the door, Mr. Stark."

"Th-thank you," Tony manages, his face red.

The door opens, and Obie sweeps in, smiling, bigger than life, booming, "Tony! _You_ look a helluva lot better than I would have thought! What's with getting sick in the middle of stage two, man?"

Obie lumbers down the foyer towards him, and quickly, strongly wraps his arms around Tony, giving him a squeeze. That rough contact, brief as it is, crushes all the tension out of him, and he clings to Obie for a moment, ashamed of needing the contact so damned much.

They push apart, and Obie steps back to stare at Tony appraisingly. "You don't look too damned bad though you still need a haircut, ya hippie. The doc treating you right?"

Tony manages a stiff smile. "You could have _warned_ me, Obie. She scared the living shit outta me."

"Oh man, I _have_ to see that! Jarvis, you have the footage?" Obie calls up cheerfully.

"I do indeed Mr. Stane."

"Jarvis, cancel- not now," Tony growls and shoots Obie a painfully embarrassed stare. "Hey, _my_ house-"

"Yeah, whatever," Obie agrees, still grinning, although his eyes are still alert and watching. "Still, she seems to have done the job. You didn't . . ." he waves at Tony's chest.

Tony's hand jumps protectively over the Thing and he scowls. "Christ no; I know better than that!"

"And if she asks?" Obie quizzes gently.

"I tell her it's a pacemaker," Tony recites impatiently. "What's for dinner?"

"I was thinking of sushi, but if you've been sick I'm not going to stuff you with raw fish," Obie snorts. "Whatta ya in the mood for?"

They banter for a while, moving from the foyer to the living room and Obie settles down on one of the sofas, loosening his tie and chatting easily. He's full of news and gossip about the company; little tidbits that Tony takes in with glee. Although Tony hasn't set foot in the main offices of Stark Industries in two decades, he knows the names of all the division heads; the receptionists and secretaries. Obie seems to have the inside track on everyone, and can imitate a few of them very well.

They wait for the order from Malibu Grille to arrive, and Tony signs whatever paperwork that Obie's brought. It's another regular part of the visits, and Tony skims through it, adding his signature on the indicated lines with his usual impatient flair. Once they're all signed Obie stuffs them back into his fancy briefcase and lets Dummy carry it to the front door.

"So . . . what did you think of the doc?" Obie asks, and Tony deliberately gives a bland smile.

"She's . . . interesting. Hell of a set of legs."

"Ohyeah," Obie agrees with a gentle smirk, "Nice ass, too." He settles back along the sofa, stretching his arms out along the back, comfortable. "I'd tap that cute little round thing."

Tony doesn't want to think about that image; he knows Obie well enough to know the other man means precisely that, and the thought of Doctor Potts with Obie brings up on a flare of resentment that he tries to hide. "Yeah well, she's got a boyfriend so we're both out of luck."

"Bullshit," Obie responds cheerfully. "You think she'd seriously pick some middle-class fed out there over the chance to lay a billionaire?"

"Wait, is this a set-up?" Tony's resentment morphs into anger. And a little panic. "You're not serious, man—I _told_ you, I'm not comfortable with . . . people. It takes time!"

"Tony, Tony," Obie placates him. "You were sick; I wasn't here. She's been out here what, two times now?"

"She's a doctor," Tony stubbornly points out. "She's not visiting; she's making Goddamn house calls."

"She's good for you," Obie counters, his benevolence wearing a little thin now. "Damn it, Tony; I'm only thinking of _your_ own good here! How do you think I feel when I'm stuck halfway around the world and I know you're sick? Having somebody else checking in on you is a first step we _both_ need to take, you understand?"

Tony is sullen for a moment. He knows Obie is right, and deep down he realizes he doesn't mind Doctor Potts coming out as much as he might have a few years back, but the resentment at being _manipulated_ into it lingers. "Yeah. Whatever you say. What made you choose _her_ anyway? She's . . ."

There's so much Tony could say, but he waits, hoping Obie will fill in the blanks.

Obie does. "She's got a medical degree, board certification in physiatrics, and we hired her up to fill out that vacancy when Untermeyer left for Johns Hopkins. Christ, Tony, give me a break here! I thought you'd be pleased to see some _real_ tits after all this time."

Tony is saved from answering when Jarvis announces the arrival of dinner, and he counts himself fortunate since he really has no denial to the last part of Obie's comment.

It's tricky, and Tony treads carefully, remembering darkly the other times he's rebelled against Obie and his directives. There have been battles in the past; Tony doesn't like to be pushed or pulled into anything, and more than that, he doesn't want Obie to maneuver matters with Doctor Potts.

Tony tries to remember what her first name is. Vanessa? Valerie? Velma?

Jesus, whatever the hell she is, it's _not_ a Velma.

Obie is unpacking the steaks from the box on the counter, shoving a plate at him. "Earth to Tony; food's here, bright boy."

They eat out in the living room, bringing a few bottles of beer along to wash things down, and the conversation turns to other matters, finally focusing on the second stage of Tony's work. He brings it upstairs, laying it out on the table that rises smoothly from hidden panel in the marble floor. He sets the prototype down and walks Obie through it point by point, finishing up with a promise to get started on the third stage ASAP.

Obie is patient and asks all the right questions that make Tony glad to explain, and by the time they're done it's nearly ten and nearly all the beer is gone. Tony feels pretty mellow. It's going to be a hell of a missile and a guaranteed contract with the military, that's for sure.

More money for SI, which is what it's all about.

They wind down, and Tony knows it's almost time for Obie to take off. Back in the early years Obie used to spend the night, but that only happens now on holidays, and sometimes not even then. It's okay though; it's been a good Thursday. Obie picks up his jacket and starts getting ready to leave. He heads for the foyer and then stops and gives Tony an intense look. "When's the doc coming back?"

"Tomorrow," Tony admits, "maybe," trying to stay nonchalant about it. Obie gives a nod, then reaches out and grabs a lock of Tony's long hair, giving it a tug. It's harder than it needs to be, and Tony's eyes water for a second.

"See if she'll give you a damned haircut," Obie jokes. "Seriously, Tony, you look like a fucking vagrant."

"Stop being jealous," Tony shoots back, "Just because you started losing yours early . . ."

"Never stopped me from getting laid, kid," Obie replies, his tone just this side of snide. "Think about _that,_ willya?"

Tony scowls, but waves as Obie picks up the briefcase, calls a quick goodbye and moves to the door. Tony shuts his eyes as the door opens and closes, and it's only after the slam has echoed that he opens them again.

This is when the loneliness hits hardest. Tony turns away, refusing to give into the self-pity. In the early years he would get drunk after Obie's visits and sometimes he still does, but rarely now. Bourbon kills the melancholy for a while, but the hangovers are a puking, migraine-infested murder.

Now Jarvis controls the liquor cabinet and restricted meds dispenser. Tony knows he could override the programming if he really wanted to, but he's deliberately made it complicated, knowing that by the time he got into it, the need would pass.

He's come close a few times, but Tony prides himself in not sliding down into his mother's particular addictions, hard as that is. He turns instead to cleaning up, and then settles back down on the living room, pulling out the letter he's been waiting to read and does.

_Dear Mr. Stark,_

_I took your advice about Kensington Optical stock and yeah, it went through the roof, just like you said. I don't know how you figured they'd take off before they did, but I'm grateful as hell that you knew it and passed it on to me. As it is, this means I can pay off the last of the mortgage and own the building outright before summer. I'm grateful as hell, sir—thanks._

_At the moment, I've got three up and coming bantam weights who look promising. Hector is the best of the three, with the moves of a ninja and has a sweet left hook. Not photogenic though—acne like a face full of buckshot, poor kid. He's the one I'm going to promote through the circuit once he's done with school. You can check him out on the website if you like, along with the other two and tell me what you think._

_I'm sure you know, but Stane's keeping me busy as usual; I had to pick him up from the airport twice now, and take him to the canyon and the base a few times as well. He wants me on-call for a drive to Cabo too, so I may be out of touch for a week in the future._

_Lou and I took the flowers up for you last Saturday and checked that the grounds are being kept up. It looks peaceful._

_Take care of yourself sir—_

_Hogan_

Tony folds up the letter and carries it with him down to the workshop, dropping it into a drawer there along with all the others. He feels torn between answering it, working on Stage Three, or looking up more information on Doctor Potts.

Ten minutes later, he's checking out her CV and whistling softly, impressed against his will. It seems that _Virginia _(not Velma, Valerie or Vanessa) has a pretty extensive qualifications. He skims over her medical schools and honors, notes the research papers and academic awards.

And yet she's a recent hire and low girl on the totem pole for SI. Tony wonders if the boyfriend has anything to do with that.

"Jarvis, do a level one gleaning on all information about Virginia Potts, please." Tony asks in an absent tone.

"Certainly sir. Are we snooping?"

"We are familiarizing ourselves with needed facts," Tony corrects the AI. "I want to know exactly who this person is."

"Very well, sir, commencing glean."

Tony rubs his chest, aware of the Thing for a moment. Usually he ignores it; sometimes he even forgets it, but it always comes back. Humming to himself he pulls up a series of three dimensional blueprints and absently corrects several minor points on them, Jarvis interrupts him two minutes later.

"Glean complete. How would you prefer presentation of the information?"

"Chronological I guess," Tony replies, glancing up to where Jarvis is holographically displaying a movie-screen projection. A birth certificate appears, followed by a quick collage of school photos and Tony smirks because Doctor Potts, although a beauty now, had very skinny and humble beginnings.

Still, it's interesting to see how the freckled, coltish girl with the variety of hairstyles grew into the cool sophistication she projects now. The pictures shift to include high school yearbook photos, and Tony notes V. Potts was active in cheerleading, Student Council and Debate.

"Save that one," he murmurs when a picture of a beaming, long-legged V. Potts doing Chinese splits on the green lawn of a football field flashes up.

"Which file, sir? Babes before Bedtime?"

"No!" Tony practically yelps, his face red. "Um, new file, under her name."

Silently Jarvis sends up the next bits of information, which show employment records for department and hardware stores—Tony guesses summer jobs—and a driver's license, along with a news clipping about a house fire.

Tony reads on, feeling a rush of concern. The story is old, the date from nearly twelve years ago, but the list of the deceased makes it clear that V. Potts is alone in the world now, and seeing it in print brings a wave of dizziness that forces him to grab the edge of the worktable.

"Sir—" Jarvis interjects smoothly, "Do you require assistance?"

"No," Tony grunts, "I'm okay. Is there more available on . . . this story?"

Instantly, Jarvis brings up a follow-up article and funeral notices from the _South River Tribune_, which includes a family photo. Tony notes with distress that all six of them had shared that same new-copper hair.

Only one of them has it now.


	7. Chapter 7

For the entire drive back up PCH to Malibu, Pepper tries to figure out exactly what to say to Tony Stark. She has her case with her, and in it, the single printed copies of the blood and urine analyses with the pertinent information neatly highlighted, and she hopes it's enough, but she's afraid it won't be.

It hasn't taken her long to see that Stark is a stubborn man, and given his situation, change on any level is agonizingly difficult for him. Anyone who's lived half his life in self-imposed isolation—

She stops, and reconsiders. It's not self-imposed, Pepper reminds herself. It's an unfortunate situation created by mental illness and manipulation. The traumas that Stark has undergone combined with the mind games of Obadiah Stane have shifted destiny in a very ugly way, and Pepper isn't sure of her footing. How much does Stark know and go along with? How much is being hidden from him?

And the device in his thorax—what does it do, what is it for? Pepper wonders. None of the news stories gave specifics on Tony's injuries from the accident, and a discreet check at the lab showed no files for him either. She ponders if there is a way to get access to the information from either Stane or Stark himself.

Pepper finally reaches the turnoff and speaks into the grille at the brick column once more. Jarvis sounds almost glad to greet her. "Welcome back, Doctor Potts. We have been expecting you."

That cheers her, and Pepper bites her lips, her smile touching the corners of her mouth. "Thank you. How is Mr. Stark today?"

"Physically he is at normal temperature and ingesting healthier fare," Jarvis assures her, and opens the gate, which creaks just as much as it did the last time she visited.

The drive seems shorter, and by the time Pepper makes her way up the steps, she notes that what had her scared last week is not _quite_ as creepy this week. The house keeps a melancholy air, but knowing there's a person within it—a living person—makes all the difference. Still, stepping inside brings a moment of trepidation, and Pepper holds her breath as she allows Jarvis to scan her again.

She looks down the long foyer to the living room and Tony is there, standing just at the edge, waiting like Greyfriar's Bobby.

"Hi," Pepper manages, looking towards him and smiling. "You look better."

"Hi," Tony replies, and Pepper notes with amusement that his eyes are on the bags in her hands. "Whatcha bring me?"

"Cheesecake."

Pepper watches as he makes a low, happy sound deep in his throat. It's a remarkably sexy noise, and it brings a nervous giggle in response from her. When she walks towards him, Tony shakes his shaggy hair out of his eyes and shifts from foot to foot, like a puppy unsure of its welcome. One moment he's in her personal space and the next, dancing out of it skittishly; a ragamuffin of a man of two parts curiosity and one part wariness.

"Is this from Chita Rivera too?" he wants to know. Pepper heads towards the kitchen; she's getting familiar with the layout of the main floor of the house.

"No, this is a recipe I got off the internet," she confesses, "something I thought you might like. You're not allergic to chocolate, are you?"

"Nope," Tony assures her with a bright-eyed look. "Can we have it now?"

"When did you have breakfast?" Pepper murmurs, setting the bag on the nearest counter and bustling for a plate in the cupboard.

"Sometime around noon yesterday," he assures her again and rummages in the bag, making happy little hooting sounds. "Oooh, a bag of See's toffee lollipops too. I sense a bribe here." Suspiciously he glances up through his bangs at her. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Pepper tries to calm him, but she knows that sooner or later they're going to have to talk, and that it won't be easy or pleasant. Better to have Tony in a good mood before bringing up the hard and ugly facts. She sets plate down and pulls open a drawer, looking for a fork. The one on the top is bent and buckled. "What happened to this one?"

"Used it to dig some gunk out of Dummy's tread," Tony replies impatiently, pulling the cheesecake out of the bag. "That was a couple of years ago, but it's still useable. Hey, cherries!"

Pepper fishes out another fork and hands it to him. "Why do you call him Dummy?"

"Because he doesn't have a voice synthesizer, or the intelligence to work one."

"Ah."

"My first," Tony says, and scoops up a huge bite of cheesecake.

Pepper isn't sure if he means the robot or the food, and waits until he's chewed and swallowed before asking.

"Robot," Tony admits. "He's a very basic model but useful and I've upgraded the important components on him. He and Butterfingers are my extra hands as needed around the place. They've got their place in the scheme of things. Aren't you going to have any?"

He nods at the cheesecake, and Pepper hesitates, then cuts a tiny slice. Tony stares at it and frowns. "That's not a slice, that's a windowpane. I can SEE through that!"

"I'm not hungry," she tells him and looks up at the ceiling. "So what about Jarvis?"

"What about him?" Tony echoes and helps himself to some of the cherries and glaze from the top of the cheesecake."

"He's a . . . . program?"

"I am considerably more, Doctor Potts," Jarvis injects smoothly from the speaker near the recessed lights. "I am one of the most advanced artificial intelligences ever designed, and am being continually upgraded and streamlined."

"It must be . . . uncomfortable to be monitored all the time," Pepper murmurs, putting sympathy into her voice. She senses that's something that Tony dislikes, and he rises to the bait as she thought he would, leaning closer.

"He's not monitoring me per say; he's just . . . providing a real-time link to the world," Tony scowls.

"Any by the world, you mean Obadiah Stane," Pepper remarks carefully.

This is the tricky part, and she feels caught between pushing and pulling here, this little critical moment in trying to get a message across.

"Yes, but that's a mutual thing," Tony counters mulishly.

"So . . . you get to monitor him too?" Pepper asks.

There's an uncomfortable pause, and Pepper wonders if she's pushed Tony too far.

Tony looks away from her, and in a quick, sharp voice calls out. "Jarvis, two minute timeout." Then he looks at Pepper, his formerly warm eyes now hard and blank. "We've got some privacy, so let's have it. Why?"

Locking her gaze with him, Pepper takes a breath and decides then and there to shoot for the moon. "You're being drugged, Mr. Stark. A low dose of Luminal for God knows how long, traces of which are in both your blood and urine samples. I want to do more tests and I want to know _how_ you're getting it if you're not on any prescriptions."

For a long time they stare at each other, and Pepper wants to _scream_ as the slow seconds tick on, wants to grab Tony's shoulders and rattle them, wants to make him understand the implications of all this.

Tony is slowly shaking his head. "No, no, you're wrong. I haven't taken, needed anything; I've been off meds for years. No drugs for years."

"-Yes, you _are."_ Pepper undercuts his words impatiently, and looks up, fearful for a moment. Tony catches her gaze and checks his watch.

"Still have fifty seconds. Proof?"

Scrambling, Pepper pulls the paper out of her purse and hands them, hunching over them as her finger points to the highlighted sections. She watches Tony scan the information, _sees_ his shoulders tense hard and tight. His lips move for a few seconds and then he looks up into the distance across the huge kitchen.

"Fuck. It's wrong. It's _wrong_! I don't know how you came up with this, but none of the tests Jarvis has ever done on me have _ever_-"

"-Jarvis reports to Stane; you said so yourself, and I'm betting you don't actually READ your own tests anyway, Mr. Stark—not after all this time. I am also betting pretty heavily here that you have a lot of trouble sleeping, that you get dizzy sometimes, and at other days you're anxious and jittery and depressed," Pepper rushes on, feeling panicky about time running out. "I think too, that you're being dosed intermittently so you don't get addicted, but I don't _know_ and I'm pretty sure Mr. Stane doesn't want _either_ of us to find out!"

Tony turns and takes a shuddery breath; Pepper watches him struggle for long moments, then he shoots her a look so sharp it cuts into her, dark eyes with a world of hurt and hardness in them.

He speaks in a low, fast voice. "Put the report away. In ten seconds, ask me for a tour of the house. Make it casual, make it light. We're having a nice visit, and after you ask, I'm going to show you my house from top to bottom, got it? To the bottom, where nobody but me ever goes, and where Jarvis is only allowed a _video_ feed."

Pepper nods, a surge of fear rising in her, sharp and fast, making her pulse jump in quick thumps at her temples. She's breaking out in goose bumps that are rippling all over her skin now, and she grips the counter, letting the seconds tick off in her head.

She looks up; catches the slightest nod of Tony's head, and croaks. "So—I've only seen a little of your house, Mr. Stark, but it's really beautiful."

"I can give you a tour," Tony replies, his own voice a little quick, but steadier than hers. "If you like."

"Are you up to that?" Pepper asks, trying to sound doctorly and concerned. Tony is already moving out the kitchen door though, and she follows him, not willing to lose sight of him.

Pepper flushes, feeling as if a thousand eyes are on her. She hadn't much thought about the constant monitoring before this visit, but now the feeling of being under a menacing microscope is making it hard to breathe.

She hasn't been this scared in a long time.

Still, Pepper manages to trail behind Tony, nodding at his patter as he points out various rooms and telling her little facts and commentary about each one, sounding for all the world like a tour guide. She sees the stress in his face though, and his words are faster than usual.

"And this is the sauna—real redwood in here, with imported floor tiles from Sweden; and there's a whirlpool tub over there—" he rambles, leading her towards the staircase Pepper remembers from the previous visit. He circles around, looking jumpy, and flashes her an uneasy smile.

"And down here is my evil lair of engineering."

"That sounds . . . interesting," Pepper manages, although she sounds squeaky, even to her own ears. "May I see?"

"I don't know," he quavers, eyes locked on hers. "It's pretty dangerous . . ."

"I won't touch anything," Pepper promises; a promise that will be easy to keep since she has no intention of laying so much as a finger anywhere.

"Cross your heart?" he persists, and she sees that this little charade is starting to get to Tony as well when his voice strains a bit. She tolerantly makes the required gesture, forcing herself to stay calm. Seemingly satisfied, he trots down the stairs, gesturing for her to follow him and Pepper does, facing the glass wall again, and the enormous expanse beyond it, fading into dark, unlit regions beyond view.

"Jarvis, I'm granting Doctor Potts access privileges to the workshop, Alpha two, please note and verify date and time," Tony barks, not looking at her. "We'll hold off on a pass code until later. Open up!"

"Very well sir, welcome and congratulations, Doctor Potts," Jarvis replies smoothly. The door slides open, and they step inside. Pepper bumps into the back of Tony, and feels awkward, stumbling back a second later as he spins, slightly off-balance himself.

He gives a little laugh, the sound slightly hysterical, and Pepper thinks that shock is setting in now, so she draws up her shoulders. "Mr. Stark," she begins, and he says "Doctor Potts," at the exact same time.

Tony points to the floor, and his voice is low. "Don't look up. The monitors are on each end of the glass wall. As long as we face away from them we can talk, got it?"

Pepper nods.

He lifts his head and waves a hand to show off the room, speaking more loudly now as he turns. "All this took about six years off and on, but since I've got the better part of sixty miles in outright ownership of the land around here, I figured I could expand underground. Hell, if Disney could do it, I could too, right?"

"Absolutely," Pepper agrees, and points to something away from the glass door. "What are those?"

They move away from the door together towards the cavernous interior. Tony doesn't turn to look at her as he speaks again, voice terse. "Why should I trust you?"

It feels like a slap in the face, and Pepper stops, stunned by how much it hurts. She fights the instinctive response to snap back, even though it's incredibly strong because this selfish little son of a bitch has no idea of how much is actually at stake here.

She grits her teeth. "Why should I trust _you_? After all, Mr. Stark, you could report me to Stane, who could have me fired, prosecuted and possibly worse."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him flinch, and feels better for it. He gives a quick nod. "Okay, yeah, you're right. You're the one on the line right now and I can appreciate that. But this isn't exactly the kind of news that goes over easy. Why the hell would Obie _do_ this?"

Several reasons come to mind for Pepper but she says nothing, letting Tony mull it over as they reach a little kitchenette built against one wall. Automatically she moves to wash her hands, the habit ingrained and comforting. Tony fishes in a cabinet. "Fuck it-tell me about Luminal."

Pepper does, outlining the uses and abuses in quick, whispered sentences, letting the words hold weight as she dries her hands. As she finishes, she adds, "You can check everything I've told you through any number of medical databases, Mr. Stark; I urge you to do that."

He fills a mug at the sink, takes a swallow and speaks, his voice monotone. "Call me Tony."

Her head bobs. "All right. Thank you. Call me . . ." she hesitates and finishes, "Pepper."

For the first time since the moment in the kitchen, Tony smiles, a slightly bemused expression that lights his dark eyes. "Doctor Pepper?"

She feels the giggles well up, urged on by nervousness and sheer ridiculousness, and grips the edge of the sink for support. Pepper snorts and finally gives in, laughing helplessly feeling a tiny thread of hope through all the fear. She tries to collect herself, tries to meet Tony's eye, but the minute they look at each other, they both burst out laughing again.

It's weird and exhilarating at the same time, and Pepper feels the edge of her heartbeat in a way she hasn't in a long, long time. She wonders if they'll make it through the rest of the afternoon without either of them getting hysterical.

Pepper Potts Internet Chocolate Cheesecake

8 1/2 oz Chocolate wafers, fine crush

1/2 c Butter, melted

12 oz Semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 1/2 c Heavy cream

16 oz Cream cheese, softened

1/4 c Sugar

4 ea Large eggs

3/4 c Cherry flavored liqueur

1 t Vanilla extract

1 lb Cherry pie filling

1/2 c Heavy cream whipped (opt.)

In a large bowl, combine chocolate wafer crumbs and butter. Pat firmly into a nine inch springform pan, covering the bottom 2 1/2 inches up the sides.

Chill. Preheat over to 325 degrees. Combine over hot (not boiling) water the chocolate chips and heavy cream. Stir until morsels are melted and mixture is smooth. Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine cream cheese and sugar, beating until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Add chocolate mixture and cherry liqueur and vanilla, mix until blended.

Pour into prepared chocolate crust.

Bake at 325 degrees for one hour. Turn oven off and let stand in oven with door ajar for one hour. Remove, cool completely. Chill for twenty four hours.

Spread Cherry pie filling over top of cheesecake, leaving one inch from edge, decorate edge with whipped cream if desired.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony is aware that a panic attack is looming right on the edge of his world. He's holding it off as best he can; keeping his focus on something distracting and Doctor Pepper here fits the bill nicely for the moment.

She's got a great giggle, and even all red in the face and scared, she's pretty. Seeing another person's face close-up like this is . . . fascinating. Tony notes her eyelashes and the curve of her nose, focusing on it to keep himself from letting the shaking start.

It's not enough.

"Tony," he hears her say with concern, and he looks down, seeing the water starting to slop over the edges of the cup as his hand shakes. He closes his eyes.

"Shit," he moans, and then it's shooting through him, the Red Squeeze, hot and LOUD, he can hear his heart, thudding and thudding, and the -

It's bad, and Tony feels himself torn between living it and watching it from his mind's eye, knowing he looks like shit as he grips the edge of the bottom cabinets and tries to breathe. Every breath feels desperately tiny, and not enough; he's gasping and quivering, muscles tightening in hard burning knots.

But she squats down beside him and strokes his arm, and her fingers are cool against his skin. Tony hears her voice between the quick beats of his heart and she's telling him to listen to her count, to breathe innnn one . . . two . . .three . . . oooouuuut one . . .two . . . three . . . in-

He twists, writhes, but her voice is still there, still gentle, and the touch of her fingers is as slow as her voice. For a moment Tony doesn't know if anything happens as he hangs there in his head, caught between the murderous red squeeze through his brain and chest and the slow stroke along his arm.

It hurts. It's _then_ all over again.

Tony lets the counting sink into him, and the soothing rhythm of the numbers help. He relaxes a tiny bit, and starts nodding to the beat. Slow, one . . . two . . .threeee . . .

He has no idea how long it goes, but he focuses on the stroke of fingers and the flow of numbers as forever goes on.

Slow now, and he can breathe.

Slow now, and he looks up, seeing Pepper looking not at him, but at a spot on the concrete floor. An old coffee stain, shaped a little like some weird continent; something Dummy never fully cleaned up and now here by his knee.

He sucks in a raspy breath and speaks. "I'm sorry."

"No," she assures him, and doesn't stop stroking his arm. "You did very well."

Tony savagely wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, embarrassed and angry. He wants her to go away. He wants her not to have seen this happen.

"Yeah right. The truth is that I am fucking pathetic, Doctor Pepper, and no amount of warm fuzzy words from you is going to change that, okay?"

"You knew what to do," she tells him quietly, moving to pick up a piece of the broken mug. "I saw that."

Weirdly, he feels better hearing that, and reaches for another piece of mug. "It doesn't stop it. It just . . . channels it."

"What's wrong with that?" she asks, and rises, putting the pieces on the counter.

There isn't an answer for that; Tony gets to his feet, realizing he's spilled water all over one leg. By the neon clock over the hazardous materials cabinet it's been nearly an hour, and more shame floods through him. "Shit."

"You have an appointment?"

He looks up, blinking and realizes she's just made a joke. A dumb one, but a joke just the same. Tony cocks his head, and forces himself to smile in a twisted way, playing along. "Oh yes. Right about now I usually play singles badminton before a jog on the tread and some quality time with trolling the internet, and then there's an hour or twenty down here trying to make some sense of the latest project, and after that I spy on the sunbathers down the beach and put in my take out order."

"Badminton?"

For once, Dummy and Butterfingers perform perfectly as they stand on either side of the makeshift court, holding the net at the regulation five feet one inch at each end. Tony can't believe he's actually playing badminton.

Playing.

In his workshop.

With an opponent.

Sports have never been Obie's thing, and going up against one of the 'bots is hardly a challenge, given the slowness of their reaction time. But Doctor Potts—Pepper—is light and quick, and he loses the first game because half the time he's caught up watching her instead of anticipating the shots.

Tony has always been a fan of the female body; judging by the amount of time he's spent observing them on the wide screens in his home that fact is obvious. But for the last twenty years there has always been a layer of glass and a loss of dimension to it, and seeing Pepper turning, twisting, lunging and rocking on the balls of her feet is a novel experience.

He remembers girls.

Tony used to date them—under strict supervision and with bodyguards nearby, but Tony _does_ remember catching movies together, and beach parties and study sessions. Those heady days of hormones and heat, of holding hands and other body parts, doing things away from the prying of his over-protective mother.

He's not a virgin, he's just . . . out of practice. Rusty, as it were.

Fossilized.

And now Pepper is driving a shuttlecock down in a hard spike that startles the hell out of him, and Tony swings, the momentum spinning him around clumsily. He hits the bird, manages to tip it up and over the edge of the net where it tumbles past Pepper's racquet and hits the cement floor.

"Nice!" she puffs, pink-cheeked. "You've got some flexibility."

"That was a sneaky shot," he complains, already thinking of saving the footage.

It's weird, knowing their actions are being recorded but not their words. Tony plans on doing a re-programming of some of the house surveillance routines to give them some privacy; he's suddenly aware of how under Stane's oversight he truly is.

Tony's never much cared about Obie watching him, but the thought of Obie watching Pepper . . .

That's different.

That's wrong.

"I think I've had enough," Pepper tells him, and hands him the racquet as she passes under the net, flashing him a smile. "Fun though. I haven't played in years."

"I haven't played . . . _ever._ Before this, I mean," Tony points out wryly. "You're lucky I even _had_ the stuff."

She comes over and looks at him critically; Tony turns away, feeling uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "Come on; let's try something else. Any good at living room soccer?"

"I think," Pepper tells him in a quiet voice, "You're over-exerting yourself, Tony. It's been a pretty heavy morning and a relapse wouldn't be good. I'd suggest lunch and a nap."

"Christ, you're not my Goddamned _mother!"_ Tony snaps, and the minute the words leave his mouth he regrets them because the mood goes awkward and dark. Pepper pulls back and doesn't look at him while she goes to the sink and fills a glass with water.

She turns, and Tony wants like hell to apologize, but some twisted sense of anger won't let him. He's tired of company, and he's starting to get a headache behind his eyes.

"You're right," Pepper agrees, and Tony watches the little brackets at the corners of her mouth as she struggles to keep her expression neutral. "But I _am_ your damned doctor, and as long as you're under my care, you'll take my suggestions in a rational and adult way."

Tony stands staring at her for a moment, quivering ever so slightly as waves of unaccustomed and unexpected emotions roll through him. Not all of them are nice and for the first time in a long time, he's at a loss, because he hasn't_ argued_ with anyone in ages.

"I . . ." he begins, but she slams her cup down and strides over to him, her eyes bright and mercilessly blue.

"Need lunch and a nap," she tells him more softly this time. "Tony, you're under a lot of stress and I want to help, but I won't if you don't take my advice."

"You'll leave," he blurts.

It's out there, naked; his new despair and shame. Tony feels like a six year old who has just wet his pants in the middle of a party.

_That _sort of humiliation.

But all Pepper does is reach over and rub his shoulder. "Yes. But not for a while, and I'll come back. Right now, let's get some lunch."

He nods, and turns away from the glass wall, pulling himself together, and when he speaks, his voice is determined and firm. "When we go up, we can be heard again; remember that. And I'm sorry. I'm _going_ to work on some way to circumvent being watched by Obie before your next visit."

She nods.

Tony makes sandwiches. Pepper's brought cold cuts and chips and some potato salad, and after they've built what they'd like to eat, she moves to the sliding glass door that leads down to the pool, but it won't budge. She looks over at him, but Tony stands there, gripping his plate tightly.

He can see the precise moment when it dawns on her.

"Sorry," she murmurs hesitantly in the silence. "Can we . . . eat in the living room?"

Pepper moves down to the sofas around the fireplace and sets out her plate, smoothing over the moment as best she can, and Tony follows her, wondering if he's ever going to be able to apologize enough for being mentally ill.

He finally agrees to a nap, feeling quiet after lunch. His muscles are sore, and his head aches a little. Pepper gives him some Tylenol and walks him to the master bedroom, not saying anything, just being a presence. Tony doesn't know how to thank her for that, so he says nothing. Carefully he climbs into bed, realizing it's the third or so time he's done this around Pepper.

"Do you always make it a habit to put your patients to bed?"

"Only the ones too stubborn to do it themselves."

Tony grins, and shoots one quick gauging look towards the ceiling before settling down. "So tell me about you. I'm sure you've got all the facts about me—who's your boyfriend?"

She winces just a little, and Tony wants to take his question back, but gamely, Pepper pulls over a chair and sits down. "His name is Phil. Close your eyes and I'll tell you about the _other_ guy I live with."

"Two—" Tony muses, yawning a little. "A ménage a trois."

"Lou is big and hairy and overly affectionate," she tells him. "I've known him since he was younger, and he's filled out nicely since I've been feeding him and letting him share my bed."

"Sounds kinky."

"Only when he licks my toes."

Tony's eyes snap open and he pushes himself up on one elbow to stare at Pepper. "He's a dog, right? Please tell me he's a dog."

Solemnly she shakes her head.

"Cat?"

"Shhhh, get some sleep," she tells him, but he knows the second guess is right by her smirk and Tony sinks back on the mattress, feeling an odd sense of contented amusement. Of course Pepper would have a cat, he figures. She's a caretaker type, clearly.

"You ought to bring him by some day," Tony murmurs. "Lou, that is." He rolls to face her, closes his eyes and gradually falls asleep.

When he wakes up, Tony senses something is different. The room is cooler, and he can hear the ocean. Rolling over, he sees Pepper by the sliding glass wall, standing in front of a two-inch gap, breathing in the salty air.

As he moves, he sees the wall quickly roll shut; sees Pepper pull back guiltily, and when she turns to look at him, they stare at each other a long time. Tony blinks, fighting a surge of darkness rolling around in his stomach.

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again," she whispers, looking scared.

Tony clenches his fists for a long moment. His eyes are shut tightly; so tightly it hurts. "You have no idea how much I wish I . . . wasn't like this," comes his raspy confession. "How much I'd like to have that window open."

Pepper is silent. She glides over and stands as he sits up, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. Tony speaks again. "It smells good. I've always liked the smell of the ocean."

"It is a nice smell," Pepper agrees softly. "One of my favorites."

"Jarvis . . . he airs out the house when I'm in the workshop," Tony continues, his voice getting stronger. "If I'm coming into the room though, he's programmed to shut the windows. But yes, the smell is good."

Pepper gives a sigh. "I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Tony. If you want the windows shut, it's okay. It's your house and your armor, and I respect that. It's what stands between you and the world."

He looks up at her strangely, his dark eyes boring into hers. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Pepper tells him firmly, shooting a quick look upwards, to let him know she's aware of being on camera. "I have to go, Tony, but I'd like to stop by again if that's not too much trouble. When is convenient for you?"

"Let me check my day planner," Tony mumbles jokingly. "See if I can pencil you in." He gets up and comes over the window, where the scent of the sea is stronger. Tony breathes it in deeply.

Longingly.

"Wednesday?" she asks, her own PD out now as she taps the screen. "I could bring you something for lunch if you'd like. I know this great little taco stand; they make a mean wet burrito."

"Sure," Tony nods."Sounds good. And licorice. I'd _kill_ for some red whips."

She arches an eyebrow at this, but adds something to her notes and picks up her bag. "All right then, Mr. Stark. Wednesday it is. I look forward to talking again with you."

He walks with her down to the living room and to the foyer, stopping at the edge. Pepper reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder, her smile still slightly tense, but sweet just the same. "Will we be testing on Wednesday?"

Tony fights a blush. "Urinalysis, so don't bring any asparagus, okay?"

"Right," she gives a quick smirk. "Until Wednesday then. Jarvis?"

"Yes, Doctor Potts?"

"Please remind Mr. Stark—politely—that he is to drink more fluids and at least _attempt_ to rest for a minimum of eight hours a night."

"They don't have to be consecutive, do they?" Tony whines.

"I will do my best, Doctor Potts. Allow me to get the door for you," Jarvis intones.

Tony isn't ready for it when Pepper lightly leans into him in a light, quick hug, and her voice is low in his ear as she does so. "Luminal. Be careful what you eat and drink, Tony."

Then she's gone, down the foyer and out the door, leaving him standing in the depths of his house, blinking and still, looking like a forlorn, long-haired scarecrow in jeans and a tee-shirt.


	9. Chapter 9

As she drives away down Highway One, Pepper is aware that the car behind her seems to be following and the thought sends a chill through her. To be sure, she changes her plan, and turns from the regular route home, heading instead towards the first place that comes to mind. Carefully she clips her Bluetooth on and dials, praying for an answer.

The phone rings and a familiar voice comes over the line. "Pepper?"

"Jim," she murmurs, feeling a rush of relief. "You're home."

"Yes . . . what's up? Why aren't you at work?"

"I'm . . . on an errand," Pepper babbles and adds, "Can I stop by?"

"Sure—"

"-Right now?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess. You don't sound good, woman."

"I'll explain it when I get there. Thanks, Jim."

She hangs up and slows down, making her way through the neighborhoods until forty minutes later, she reaches the little gated community just outside the base. Jim buzzes her in, and to her relief, the car behind her drives on down the road. Pepper pulls into the quiet streets of the housing development, and reaches Jim Rhodes' place within a few minutes; he's out front, collecting the mail and looking relaxed in jeans and an Air Force Academy sweatshirt.

"Hey," he tells her, giving her a quick hug as she climbs out and comes over to him. "Long time no see—what's up?"

Pepper gives a relieved smile. She likes Colonel Jim Rhodes. He was one of her body movement models for some of the prosthetic studies she'd done prior to joining SI, and one of the few she's kept up a friendship with since. Rhodey is a good pilot and good soldier; as interested in rehabilitation and care of veterans as she is.

He's also a good friend, a sympathetic ear, and Pepper needs both of those right now, so she points towards the house with her head. "Are you busy? Can we talk?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim nods, and follows her into the house. He brings her a bottle of water and takes a beer for himself, and they settle in the living room. Pepper rubs her eyes and wonders how best to approach the subject.

"Jim . . . what do you know about Tony Stark?" she asks, bluntly.

Pepper expects him to look blank, or maybe shake his head. What she doesn't expect is for Jim Rhodes to narrow his gaze and lean forward, looking serious.

And wary.

"I know what everybody knows," he begins. "He's SI's company figurehead and mascot, some sort of paranoid nutjob who's been hiding out in his mansion out in Malibu for the last twenty years or so. Why?"

"Because I'm about to breach a lot of doctor/patient confidentiality here, and I want to know if you can deal with that," Pepper responds glumly. "I need someone to know the truth if . . . if something happens to me."

She's said it: said what she's been thinking and fearing for the last week now. In the warm afternoon light in Jim's living room it seems completely melodramatic, and Pepper would laugh at herself if it wasn't so serious.

Jim doesn't laugh. Instead, he shoots her a patient look, one tempered with curiosity. "Sure you don't want a beer for this?"

"I might," she concedes, "but not right at the moment. Are we good?"

Jim holds up a finger. "Two questions first, Pep-"

"It can't be Phil," Pepper sighs in easy anticipation. "Phil would take what I say and run straight to his bosses in Washington. They've wanted info on Stane for years, and you know Phil is always looking for a promotion. He's a good man, but he's definitely on a career track, Jim. I won't give him this just to have it used for his advancement."

Rhodey shrugs a little in acknowledgement and takes a sip of beer before speaking. "That's one. The second question is: What makes you think I won't do the same thing? I've got a duty to my country, Pepper, and if we're talking about Tony Stark, then somewhere down the line it's going to mean talking about Stane and the military contracts with SI. I may not be in the loop for that particular part of things, but I know how it goes."

"You might," Pepper acknowledges, "eventually. Right now what I have is so . . . tenuous that nobody is going to take me seriously but you."

"You don't know that," he teases. "I might not take you seriously either."

She reaches over and lightly punches his shoulder, feeling relieved. "Maybe not, but at least you won't call me crazy."

He gives her a smile and a little nod, and Pepper starts talking.

An hour later, Jim isn't smiling anymore; instead, he's rubbing his chin and Pepper can tell that he's as conflicted as she is now. Part of what makes Jim Rhodes the right person to confide in is his ability to listen—truly listen—before saying anything.

She's laid everything out, from her first visit and the bizarre world inside the mansion to the subsequent visits and the test results. Pepper has been careful not to dwell too much on her interactions with Stane; most of that is innuendo, and in any case, she wants the focus on Tony, not herself.

"Damnnn," Jim finally whistles. "Yeah, I can see now why Phil needs to be out of the picture."

"He's a good man," Pepper defends him, but mildly. "I just don't want to see Tony—Mr. Stark—unduly harassed or confronted until I actually know if there's something to pursue. From the reaction I got, I'm sure he's a victim here, but-"

Jim looks up. "When his parents died, Stark was a minor, right?"

Pepper nods, thinking back to the newspaper articles. "Yes."

"I'd bet that Stane was made guardian—probably a clause either in their will, or put forth by the company after the accident. The question is—was it just until Stark reached the age of twenty-one, or was it one of those 'until capacity' deals?"

Pepper hesitates. "If that's the case then it's going to very hard to change things—agoraphobia and drug addiction do not make for capacity in the eyes of the law."

"Nope," Jim agrees, "but getting proof that Stane is the one holding back treatment and supplying the drugs would tip the scale a bit. Impaired capacity is one thing, but deliberate intent to cause harm is another."

"I'll look into it," Pepper agrees, feeling a rush of purpose. "That's definitely a start. Maybe I get access to the details of the will, or see what paperwork there is on the matter because I'm sure his AI must have it all on file."

"If it doesn't report you to Stane along the way," Jim points out. "I have a few connections with some people who have access to public records—let me see what I can dig up that route first, okay? It's better that way."

Pepper nods. "Okay. In the meantime, I have to figure out just how much luminal Tony's being dosed with, and how often. And _how_ he's getting it."

Jim shrugs. "Has to be something he's habitual about—sports drinks, after-dinner aperitif—"

"—Vitamins," Pepper blurts, awareness dawning. "He takes vitamins regularly; those blister packs laid out for a dose a day."

Jim winces. "That makes sense in a devious bastard sort of way. Can you check?"

Pepper nods and checks her cell phone, noting the time with despair. "Yep. I have to get going, damn it. Jim-" she rises to her feet and shoots him a grateful look, "you don't think I'm crazy?"

He cocks his head and stares at her a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "No. Your _story_, however . . . let's just say I'm not totally convinced, but it's just freaky enough to look into."

Jim walks her to her car and sees her off, waving as Pepper pulls away and she feels better, having shared her concerns. It's nearly sunset, and she speeds along, trying to think of what to say when she gets home.

The porch light is on, and Lou is not there to greet her; clear signs that Phil is home. Pepper takes a breath and steps in, bracing herself for the questions.

He's in the living room, idly watching some reality show, but clicks it to 'mute' when Pepper comes in, and his smile is gracious as she bends to kiss him. "Hey. Long day?"

"Yeah. I had to run errands again. I hate it when Peter makes me do that."

Phil gives a non-committal murmur and makes room for her on the sofa. Pepper pulls his arm around her and he doesn't resist, but he doesn't hug her either. For a moment they say nothing, both of them looking at the commercials on the screen.

"I called the lab," Phil murmurs softly, not turning his head.

Pepper flinches. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. They said you were on some outreach project. What's _that_ all about?"

A thousand different answers flash through Pepper's mind, but she settles for a half-truth, letting it tumble reluctantly from her lips. "Mental patient. He won't come in to the lab."

"Ah." Phil gives a sigh. Lou waddles over, eyes Pepper with distain, and condescends to leap up with no grace whatsoever and plop himself heavily on her lap. She pets him, and his deep rumbling purr rolls out, filling up the silence.

Finally Phil stirs, turning his head, his calm expression never changing. "I got the promotion."

"That's great," Pepper replies instantly, although her first reaction is panic. She nudges his shoulder. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Phil gives a gentle smile. "It's good to hear you say that."

"Phil . . ." Pepper begins, dread washing over her as the old rift starts to rise up again between them. "It really is good-"

"It means a lot for both of us," he continues, "and I'm not putting any pressure on you, because I know you're still the new girl at Stark, but . . ."

" . . . news, but I just _got_ the job, and we agreed to give me time to build up my CV," Pepper murmurs defensively. "I thought that was the plan."

"There are lots of laboratories and hospitals in the DC area," Phil points out patiently. "And the VA offices are there, so you wouldn't be short of patients and prosthetics either. It's not as if you can't find work in Washington."

Pepper stares at him, hearing a faint but stubborn edge in his voice, and a surge of anger jolts through her. "My career is _just_ as important to me as _yours _and Stark Labs is one of the most prestigious places in physiatrics, Phil. This isn't fair."

Phil blinks, and Pepper bites her lips when she sees the pain in his eyes. He's a good man—he is—but she knows his next words are going to hurt. And they do.

"Pepper . . . I love you."

"I . . ."

"I love you, but this isn't working. I think we both know that," Phil sighs. "What I want and what _you_ want in life are completely different, and much as I'd like to make you happy, I can't give up on kids and a family. The whole cliché white picket fence and a dog dream."

Lou looks up resentfully at this last part, but purrs again when Phil reaches over and strokes him.

"I . . . I want those too," Pepper whispers, her voice near tears.

Phil gives her another one of his gentle smiles, this one tinged with sorrow. "Maybe you do, Pepper, but not now. And not with me."

This is when she should speak up and deny his observation, but Pepper holds her tongue, painfully aware that he's right. She likes Phil, and respects him and enjoys him, but that's as far as her feelings go. Back in the early days of their relationship she'd told herself she could—would—grow to love him.

She blinks as hot tears well up, and Phil squeezes her shoulders, saying nothing and letting her cry against his collar.

Later, in bed, Pepper stares at the ceiling, trying to fight the traitorous sense of relief that rises in her. She's grateful that Phil is taking the guestroom downstairs instead of lying in the dark here with here. She'll miss the comfort of his body; at the same time, giving up the hypocrisy of this relationship is the right thing to do.

_He's a good man,_ Pepper thinks quietly, _just not the right man_.

She spends some time remembering their courtship, replaying it through her mind's eye, recalling when they first met, and the quiet way Phil Coulson had flirted with her, his blue-eyed, easy charm comfortable and sweet. It hadn't taken long to be swept up into a relationship. They'd spoken of marriage, and of kids; Phil has always been interested in being a father, which is flattering.

But through it all, Pepper knows that her reluctance has been there since the beginning, and now that the truth is out, she cannot deny it anymore; namely, she and Phil have very different agendas in life, and while some of the goals are the same, the pacing of their timelines are terminally out of synch.

She wishes he was angry. Pepper wishes for a little more passion from Phil, but emotional reserve is one of his more infuriating traits, and while it makes for a good FBI agent, it doesn't help matters of the heart. Here in the dark, Pepper mourns alone and finally drops off to sleep, her face still slightly wet when she does so.

"So tell me how things are going," Stane orders lightly, helping himself to a demitasse of espresso, his smile bland. Pepper fights against the fidgets. They are on the terrace outside Stane's office, overlooking the beautifully manicured little Zen garden down below. At any other time it would be a restful setting, but between the events of the night before and Stane's sharp glance, Pepper feels slightly trapped.

"Oh they're very good," she chirps, blinking. "Mr. Stark is certainly eating better, and his fever is gone, so that's a major improvement."

"That's terrific," Stane murmurs, his eyes never leaving hers. "Glad to hear it."

Pepper nods, wondering what else to say, but Stane speaks up again, smoothly. "You two getting along all right?" It's supposed to be an innocuous question, but this is Stane, and he gives it a tint of lechery.

"Um, yes," Pepper stammers, feeling her face go red. She damns herself for deliberately choosing her next words. "He's . . . very attractive."

It's an unprofessional observation and in any other situation Pepper knows she would be reprimanded or at least re-directed, but Stane's grin broadens, and he looks upward, his soft chuckle bubbling out.

"Yeah well. Tony takes after his mother. She was always the beauty of the family. Course, with that damned hair of his he practically _looks_ like her now, minus the beard. Can you give him a cut next time you're out to see him?"

It's a casual, almost playful request, but Pepper hears the order couched under all the good old boy tones Stane is using. She starts to protest but thinks better of it; Stane smiles. "Atta girl."

Pepper manages a bright, artificial smile as his gaze strays over her chest like a small, quick spider. "I'll try."

"Good." Stane dismisses the topic easily, shifting his attention to her legs. "So what did you two talk about?"

She's ready for this, and launches into the list of small topics that will match Jarvis' surveillance: the food, the house tour, the panic attack. Stane seems especially interested in the attack, and wants more of the details, but Pepper sticks to the basic facts, and keeps his attention directed to her own suggestions for treatment, which include meditation and breathing exercises.

Stane nods, not as interested in prevention as she is, but Pepper is grateful, since it keeps him from asking about testing or any peculiar gaps in the video feed. Just as she's mentally congratulating herself on making it through the conversation without any serious missteps, Stane shoots her a lazy smile and leans forward, his knees practically touching hers.

"So what drugs do you think we ought to prescribe Tony to get him back on his feet?"


	10. Chapter 10

Her words echo in his head and Tony keeps hearing them over and over again, marveling at how they sound, how they make sense. He feels a rush of purpose, a jolt of that inner magic that blends science, engineering and sheer cockiness into a daring concept.

This is the gift of genius, this ability to channel what he has and knows into what he wants, and although most of his work has gone for Obie and the good of the company, _this_ one is going to be his.

His alone.

Tony doesn't grin, but the gleam in his eyes sharpens. Glitters.

He gets to work.

"Jarvis, new project," Tony purrs, pacing around his three dimensional draft table, arms waving. "Private server, pull up whatever SI's got going on full body armor. While we're at it, shield any outgoing inquiries for this project from Obie."

"Certainly, sir. Schematics, such as they are, are up. Are we done with the Jericho project?"

"No, but it's a lower priority at the moment."

"Mr. Stane will not be pleased with any further delay," Jarvis reminds Tony, his voice smooth, but with a hint of regret in it.

"Most of it is just a matter of fine-tuning and fuel projections," Tony murmurs impatiently. "Grunt work. _You _do it."

"I live to serve," Jarvis responds, his sarcasm mild. "Any other menial tasks you wish to burden me with?"

Tony looks up, eyes bright. "Yes. Timeout, two minutes." A second later, he adds, "Jarvis, analysis: what is the best course of treatment for my . . . mental incapacitation?"

There is a tactful pause, and then the AI's voice speaks up, gently. "The most recommended treatment for acute agoraphobia and resultant panic attacks includes psychological therapy sessions both private and group; structured desensitization and mild medication, sir."

"So why am I not getting anything?" Tony questions.

"Because you have refused treatment, sir," Jarvis tactfully reminds him, "For years."

"But I'm being medicated. Without my consent or knowledge."

"That is incorrect. You have no prescriptions at this time."

"Oh yeah? Analyze my last ten blood draws and urine tests," Tony tells Jarvis tersely as he studies the holograms of body armor on the table and begins to modify it, hands moving over the thin outline, absently reshaping it.

"I stand corrected, sir," Jarvis manages to sound slightly mortified. "Apparently you have fluctuating quantities of—"

"-Luminal in my system, yeah. And the occasional dose of whatever's in those beauties from the restricted Meds cabinet. Since you have all my medical data from practically forever, Jarvis, run me a hypothesis on _why_ Obie would do this without my informed consent, and while you're at it, give me the best guess as to _how_ he's doing it. Still on the timeout?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Last thing—find a way to synthesize a false video feed for Obie's monitors and once you have it, run it until I tell you to stop. Use whatever old footage you have—and I know you've got YEARS of it-and keep me _out _of his sight and hearing from this point on, got it?"

"With pleasure, sir," Jarvis replies quietly.

The three dimensional design on the display stand takes shape; Tony molds it with all the finesse of a sculptor. He murmurs to himself as he works, and pulls in information about body mechanics, various alloys, and insulation. Hours speed by, and it's only when Jarvis raises his volume that Tony finally looks up, blinking.

"Yeah, what?"

"Sir, I have carried out your various requests, and must inform you that before I pass on the hypothesis about Mr. Stane, the directives from Doctor Potts take precedent. You need hydration and rest."

"I'm fine!" Tony protests, straightening up and nearly falling over in the process. "Okay, I _meant _to do that."

"Of course you did, and very amusing it was," Jarvis agrees, "but if you continue to resist the directives of the doctor, I will be forced to replace all of your musical selections with the works of Mr. Boone and Mr. Manilow."

"You fight dirty, Jarvis," Tony yawns widely. "Fine. I'll take a nap and then you can give me the lowdown."

He makes his way up the stairs, pausing to look out over the dark water of the Pacific, noting the ghostly curl of a distant wave crest or two before turning to his bedroom. Tony drops onto the bed and sleeps within minutes.

His sleep is dreamless, and deep.

When he wakes up just after dawn, Dummy is holding out a bottled water, practically pushing it into Tony's face.

"Gah! At least let me sit up," he grumbles, taking it and guzzling it down. He tosses the empty container to Dummy, who catches it easily . . . and drops it.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Brilliant. Out—go clean out pool drain or something. Jarvis?"

"Sir."

"Hypothesis?" Tony strips off his clothes and heads to the bathroom, scratching all the way. As he steps in, the lights go on, and the toilet seat lifts automatically. Tony takes his leak, yawning.

"Given the variables of Mr. Stane's personality and past record of his personal and professional actions, the most likely hypothesis in regards to his underhanded deviousness is that he ultimately wishes to acquire Stark Industries," Jarvis states blandly.

Tony says nothing, and flushes, his expression bleak. "Don't sugarcoat it there—yeah, I figured. But why hasn't he just . . . offed me?"

He looks up, naked and vulnerable in the bathroom light, his beard thick and hair long. In the mirror, Tony looks at himself and thinks he looks a bit like Da Vinci's Vetruvian Man, and holds out his arms just to check the comparison.

"He has not 'offed' you, as you so quaintly put it, because of your valuable capacity to design weaponry, sir. You are, if I may use the vernacular, Obadiah's personal goose, laying golden eggs for the profit of Stark Industries."

Tony gives a long, slow nod and puts his arms down. "Yeah, that jives too. As long as I'm useful, I get to live. Any other reason?"

"You own controlling interest in the company, and although your capacity is diminished from a practical standpoint, you have not been officially diagnosed or determined as incapacitated in any legal documentation. Mr. Stane has attempted to circumvent the provisions laid out in your late father's will, and has been unable to do so thus far because of your isolation. Should he bring you back into public scrutiny, there would be considerable interest from the media and the board of Stark Industries."

"Great. So I'm the stubborn little cog in the gears of SI, and because I can make big booms, Obie figures it's worth coming out here once a week and babysitting me."

"That," Jarvis concurs, "Seems to be the size of it, sir."

Tony steps into the shower and lets the water run over him. He turns his face up into the rushing stream, plants his hands on the tile wall, bracing himself, and because he can't deny it any longer, he weeps.

This is the way he cries, when he must. Tony has always heard that men don't cry; that tears are for the weak and cowardly. His father believed that, and Obie believes that. Tony knows though, that sooner or later, when the pain is too much and the heavy ache in his throat becomes unbearable, that crying is inevitable.

It doesn't happen often, but Tony is wise enough not to fight it.

Years of visits, years of pizza and beer and sports scores and pep talks and avuncular support, Tony thinks. All a sham. Or maybe not; he wishes he knew for sure. Obadiah has a magnificent poker face, but to keep it up for nearly twenty years is a hell of a record for anyone. Tony snuffles and turns away from the stream, reaching for the soap.

Obadiah and all his faces, Tony thinks. His laugh, his careless pats and hugs and gestures. His scowl, Tony remembers. The shouting, the threats to leave and not come back. The biting comments that could have gotten uglier with just one more glass of scotch for either of them.

The nights of schematics and plans and brainstorming. The pros and cons mixed with praise and condemnation.

For a while, Tony hates Pepper. Hates that she's brought this truth out, and let the little doubts he's had grow. _And you've *always* had a few, haven't you Tony?_ He thinks bitterly.

After a few more rough scrubs, Tony rinses off and climbs out, shaking the water from his hair, feeling a need to beat something with his fists. He heads down to the gym and without even warming up, tears into the punching bag, landing blow after blow against the vinyl and canvas surface. Tony feels heat all through his body, the hate radiating out of his skin, flushing him, tempering him.

When he's had enough, Tony wipes the sweat from his forehead and totters over to the edge of the indoor pool, splashing some of water on his face. His reflection, he thinks, looks a little like a bitter version of Tarzan, shaggy and sullen. He dips his hands in one more time and heads to the workshop.

"Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"What does Obie watch?"

He doesn't need to clarify; Jarvis knows what Tony means.

"Mr. Stane checks daily to see that you have risen, and that you have eaten," Jarvis replies. "He also scans the footage of your blood draws and . . . . panic attacks."

"Does he watch . . . Doctor Potts?" Tony whispers.

"Yes sir, I am afraid he does."

Tony's eyes narrow and he heads towards the workshop, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "Music. I want it loud and harsh; whatever fits the criteria."

Jarvis responds instantly and Sons of Azrael blares out with enough power to make most unsecured surfaces vibrate. Tony manages a grim smile and moves towards the lathing machines.

He works. The seemingly random and scattershot way Tony moves through his workshop defy anyone else's logical direction, but as ever, he knows what he's doing and what he wants. Under his careful control, the inner workings join and come online; long and short polished outer pieces of armor begin to take shape. Tony handles delicate fusing jobs along with the heavy grunt work of moving metal plate around.

Tony chooses not to think, but to _do._ In time, the design in his head becomes reality under his fingertips. He calls on Jarvis to scan him, and calibrate his body measurements, then applies the numbers to the metal exoskeleton laid out on the worktables. Dummy and Butterfingers race around bringing tools, carrying equipment, holding, toting and retrieving needed components.

The armor comes together.

Tony takes a break, absently stroking the Thing in his chest. He notes that it's nearly sunset now, and the ache in his gut is telling him that food would be a _great_ idea.

Jarvis, what's in the fridge?"

"Leftover steak, ingredients for sandwiches, a minute amount of guacamole and cold fried chicken," the AI reports. "Along with various beverages and condiments."

Now his bladder is complaining, and Tony sighs, moving to the little bathroom in the workshop. He calls over his shoulder. "Have Dummy make me a steak and guacamole sandwich then, with a beer. Has Obie peeked in today?"

"Twice, sir. I am streaming old video footage of you with the timestamps altered."

"Good," Tony nods grimly. "Establish a secure, outside connection to Doctor Potts' cell phone please."

She answers on the second ring, her voice puzzled. "Hello?"

"You need to make me more guacamole, Doctor. I've sort of polished it off," he announces as he washes his hands.

"T-Tony?" Her voice goes from puzzled to astonished and Tony likes the breathiness of it.

"Yep. If you need to reach me, use this number; Jarvis will pipe you in and Obie won't know," he tells her. "We're off his radar."

"That's what _you_ think," Pepper sighs. "He wants me to drug you, Mr. Stark."

"More?"

"Yep. Apparently this project you're doing is important enough that he wants to pump you up on amphetamines to get it done on time."

"Christ," Tony grits his teeth. "This means I've got some lost time to make up for, since I'll need to get that crap _finished _before his next visit. Okay, I can't talk long because I'm going to be fanatically busy, BUT I need you to find somebody for me."

"Wait, wait, I need to tell _you_ to STOP taking the vitamins first. I think that's how you're getting the Luminal," he hears her babble. "It's the only ingestible that you take consistently, so promise me you'll avoid them, all right?"

"Vitamins?" Tony mutters, and nods—not that he can see her. "Yeah, okay. I can have Jarvis analyze one to confirm. Fuck, that's one devious way of doing me."

"Tony—" Her voice is nervous now. "You're likely to have, um, withdrawal symptoms."

"Yeah, yeah," he brushes that aside, already thinking of the Jericho project. "But since the doses have been minor, they can't be_ too_ bad, right?"

"Tony," she repeats in a tone he's learning to recognize. But he's tired, and even with Jarvis doing the grunt work on Jericho, there's still a shitload to do, so he gives a low, exasperated growl.

"I can handle it, I can. Hell, I'll *have* to. I'll sleep and drink lots of water _after _I deliver the goods to Obie."

"That won't be until after I see you next," Pepper points out. "Listen to me! I want you to get at LEAST six hours of sleep right now, otherwise . . ."

Tony waits, curious to hear what she'll used to threaten him.

There's only one thing that would work.

"Otherwise I won't . . . bring guacamole," Pepper finishes lamely.

He laughs, but there's a little relief in it; a little hysteria. "Pulling out the big guns. Okay. I'll sleep. But before I do, I need you to try and find someone for me. Someone Obie told me was dead, but clearly I can't believe everything I've been told."

"Dead?"

"Yeah," Tony grunts, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "His name's Ramiz. Doctor Ramiz Yinsen."


	11. Chapter 11

In the week following her Friday visit, Pepper gets a lot more done than she gives herself credit for. She frets, of course—that's par for the course, but above everything else, Pepper is pragmatically efficient. She goes to work and manages to get through her caseload without a hitch, then spends her lunch hours doing research.

Tony has given her a name, and a link to Jarvis, who has access to hidden archives; between those two pieces she's managed to uncover most of the story about the mysterious implant in her patient's chest. As stories go, it's nothing short of amazing, and Pepper is glad that nobody at the West Street branch of the library looks at her while she makes notes and little sounds of surprise.

His heart is full of metal. Not ordinary metal, either; these are tiny shards ranging from nearly invisible to half millimeter darts that had been starting to circulate through young Tony Stark's system before Doctor Yinsen dropped a magnet into his chest.

The shards are from the accident, and the accident was because of a bomb. _That _part wasn't shared with the press, although there were speculations at the time and ever since. The death of the Starks was now among the established urban legends along with those of Marilyn Monroe and Judge Crater; fodder for tabloids throughout the world, but in this case, fact trumps fiction.

Howard Stark and his wife were murdered by a car bomb modified from an experimental fragmentation grenade manufactured by Stark Industries. The internal investigation files make for fascinating reading, and Pepper is impressed with Stane's ruthlessness in apprehending the suspects—or rather, aiding in apprehending the suspects. Apparently an unnamed government agency was involved, and even Jarvis does not have enough security clearance to provide her with that information.

Still, Pepper muses, the work that Doctor Yinsen did in saving Tony is nothing short of amazing, and the notes about the original surgery and the electromagnet make her wince. By the time she reads about seventeen year old Tony creating the arc-_his_ arc, nothing surprises her anymore.

It's a battery, Pepper muses, aware that Tony would call it much more than that, and rightly so. Still—it boils down to being a battery amplifying the magnet in his chest, and she's impressed that Tony knows enough about biology, anatomy, physics and rehabilitation to have designed the thing.

According to the information Jarvis has, Yinsen is with him for nearly half a year and then . . . vanishes. This is where Pepper has to work to get any information, and she shares it with Rhodey over lunch at Waffle World.

"The trail ends on a Friday nearly six months after the accident," Pepper tells him glumly. "Yinsen didn't show up at the mansion after that, and Stane told Tony that they'd found Yinsen's car and a lot of blood in a ditch in one of the canyons off the PCH. Tony was pretty devastated, but the arc was working perfectly aside from some adjustments he could do himself, so he didn't need any more monitoring or help."

Rhodey gives a gusty sigh. "Is he a total nerd? I mean, I get this mental picture of Stark in some ThinkGeek shirt with Trek posters on the walls and Weird Al playing in the background, you know?"

This makes Pepper snort a little, and the passing waitress shoots her an amused look before refilling their sodas. Pepper waits until the woman moves off to shake her head. "He's a little geeky, but it's because of his isolation, Jim. Right now he's socially awkward, but with some time and acclimation, he'd do fine with other people. People aren't the problem—the agoraphobia's the problem. But Yinsen just vanishing—that's incredibly suspicious."

"Agreed," Rhodey nods. "But the question is—did Stane do it, or did Yinsen do it himself?"

Pepper blinks; this is a new idea, and she mulls it over for a second. "You think he may have _chosen_ to vanish?"

"Yes," Rhodey looks grim. "It's possible. I mean, think about it, Pepper—Yinsen is taking care of the heir of Stark Industries. He's getting close to Tony, and I'd bet Stane wouldn't like that too damned much. And once Tony was able to handle day to day life without medical supervision—this man Yinsen would have been . . . expendable."

"A loose end," Pepper sighs, the picture all too clear now. "But that's a hell of a risk. If Tony needed a doctor—"

"Then Stane would be smart," Rhodey says slowly. "He'd get the newest hire; the person nobody will miss too much, and have _her_ do the job, then make her disappear when she wasn't needed. Shit. This is bad, Pepper. Really *bad.*" He looks more than grave now; Rhodey looks scared, and Pepper feels her mouth go dry.

"But . . . I'm not expendable," she insists. "Tony is still malnourished and—"

"—Pepper, don't be stubborn," Rhodey argues. "Stane isn't an idiot, but he's not exactly lacking in the ruthless department. You need to be careful, girl. Very, very careful. And you need to tell Phil, because—"

"Phil's gone," Pepper blurts, and to her horror she begins to tear up. Embarrassed, she grabs a napkin, and Rhodey leans over, taking one of her hands, his expression contrite.

"Shit. I'm sorry," he mutters uncomfortably. "You should have said something!"

"It's okay," Pepper sniffs, dabbing at her face. "It's been a long time coming, Jim. Just having it happen _now _when everything else is going on . . ."

"Things do pile up," Rhodey agrees ruefully. "Seriously—you okay?"

Pepper nods, and gently, Rhodey goes on, explaining about the structure of the Stark will, and how Tony owns the majority stock, and how thanks to some of the legal wording Stane is in charge of Tony until age twenty-five, or in the event of any life-long accident or disability.

"It's pretty standard as wills go," Rhodey finishes. "And I think old man Stark bumped up the legal age as protection against Tony running the company into the ground. Stane's the executor, and because the accident was pretty well covered in the media, he's stuck. The will's on file, and there are still three or four lawyers at SI who worked on it. Maybe Stane's biding his time."

"Then why not let Tony die through neglect?" Pepper wonders with a shudder. "Unless . . . he's valuable."

Rhodey gives a slow nod. "Pepper—if he could design an electromagnet to fit into his chest at seventeen . . ."

The thought is unfinished between them, but obvious.

They finish lunch on a somber note, and when they say goodbye in the parking lot, Jim hugs Pepper tightly for a moment. "Take care and stay in touch, Pepper. Day or night, okay? This is some deep shit we're in now."

"I know," she whispers back, "I know."

It's a quiet night in the house with no-one but Lou. Phil is with a friend, and most of his things have already been packed and Uhauled away—if there's one thing Coulson is, Pepper acknowledges with a pang, it's efficient. She settles in on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn and fires up a movie—some silly noir film with Val Kilmer as a gay detective—and tries to follow the plot, but every creak outside the house makes her jumpy.

Her phone rings. "Tony?"

"HiPeppersaydoyouhaveaminute," he machineguns into her ear. "HearsthethingIneedtoknow—doyouhavestylistskills?"

She's alarmed; the popcorn nearly spills as Pepper unfolds herself and rises, feeling a hard lurch in the pit of her stomach.

Tony's manic.

"?"

Cheerfully, cheerfully manic.

"Tony, Tony, slow DOWN," Pepper orders, her own adrenaline rising. She strides towards the front door, scooping up her purse before she even realizes what she's doing. Lou has trotted with her, doing his best to set himself as a furry blockade at the door. "When did you last sleep?"

"NotimportantheydidyouknowI'vegotspiders?"

This is bad, and Pepper slips into the shoes by the front door. Lou is giving her a dirty look, and she scoops him up too; he can wait in the car.

"I'm coming out there _now,_ Mr. Stark," Pepper announces, hoping Tony hears her. Hopefully Jarvis does, over the loud sounds of what seems to be polka music.

"Cooldon'tforget."

"Forget what?"

", ?"

Pepper climbs into her car, cursing under her breath as she notes the nearly empty tank. Trips out to Malibu aren't short, and she hopes there's something open on the way back.

Whenever _that_ might be.

She drives. Lou is experienced enough to stay out from under the pedals; he opts to settle on the seat in the back, curling up on her good sweater. Pepper talks to him the whole trip, which takes nearly forty minutes.

". . . Have to see if I have any sedatives if needed, God, I should have checked on him earlier today . . ." She rattles on, reaching the brick column outside the compound gates. The road is empty, so Pepper pulls in and unrolls the window, shouting at the screen. "Jarvis, it's me, please let me in! I know it's not Wednesday, but I'm concerned about Mr. Stark."

"Welcome Doctor Potts," Jarvis replies, and she swears she hears a hint of relief in his tone. "I have been expecting you."

That's not good, so Pepper guns the car through the gates, earning an annoyed yowl from her passenger in the back seat.

She scoops up her bag and Lou, then trots up the steps to the front door. It swings open before she hits the porch, and Pepper hurries in. Lou is NOT thrilled to be cat-handled, but he doesn't sink any claws in _just _yet.

Pepper cuts to the right, goes down the steps to the workshop and the glare of light makes her blink stupidly. The glass walls are muffling the music, and it's no longer Polka now, oh no.

It's—

She lays a hand on the handle, yanking it open and the throb of the Village People makes her wince, in more ways than one. Over across the main room, her patient is singing along in a raggedy off-key voice while working on what looks like a metal bowling ball.

Lou has officially Had Enough. He squirms out of Pepper's grasp and drops to the floor, bolting back up the concrete steps and out of sight. Pepper shoots one worried look before remembering the house is sealed, and looks back at Tony Stark.

"Macho, Macho Mannnnnn," he warbles, "I wanna be, a Macho ma—hey Pepper! Check out my head!"

That's precisely what she intends to do.

Striding over, Pepper reaches him, and takes in Tony's appearance, which is just slightly better than Godawful, but not by much.

He's sweaty and greasy, with huge dark circles under his eyes, and most shockingly of all, his long dark hair is now chopped up, with huge hunks of it lying on the concrete floor. The hack job is uneven and makes him look as if Tony has been in a losing fight with a weed whacker. Pepper notes that his pupils are small, and his lips dry.

"Tony," she begins soothingly, "what are you doing?"

He flashes her a slightly crazed smile. "Stuff I should have been doing YEARS ago, mein fraulein Pfeffer! I have the power, you know I have the technology. I have ** of technology, but not actually in my butt because let's face it, that's just sorta gross, hey did you bring dip?"

"Jarvis, please turn off the music. I need water immediately for Mr. Stark—how long has it been since he's eaten or slept?" Pepper asks, her hands gently catching Tony's face as she forces him to make eye contact. The touch seems to ground him for a bit and he settles, his own fingers still holding the odd object.

The Village People cut off mid-chorus.

"Mr. Stark has been awake for the last twenty-two hours, and last took solid sustenance about sixteen hours ago," Jarvis reports. "Since then he has been ingesting caffeine-laced energy drinks."

"You need sleep, Tony," Pepper tells him. He blinks hard, and tries to shake his head, but can't, because she's still holding it.

"Later. I need to get . . . hey, are those pajamas? Are we having a sleepover?" Tony asks, looking down at her clothes. Pepper rolls her eyes; in her haste, she's forgotten she is in plaid cotton drawstring pants and a Pepe Le Pew sweatshirt.

"Water," Pepper insists, and takes the bottle nervously handed over by Dummy. Tony grudgingly drinks it, letting it dribble down his shirtfront. When done, he belches hugely, and Pepper shoots him an irritated glance.

"Sorry, so, like my helmet? That's why I cut my hair; because it was hanging out and made me look like some refugee from a World of Warcraft campaign—" Tony rambles cheerfully. He picks up the metal sphere again and slips it over his head.

Pepper pulls back, startled; the helmet covers his features and gives him an alien look akin to Gort . . . or maybe Bender, from Futurama.

"What do you need a helmet for?" she asks, fearfully. Pepper suspects he's about ten minutes from a serious crash, and if she can get him in a quiet dark place before then, so much the better.

"Well to go with the armor of course," comes his 'duh!' reply. "Armor without a helmet is pretty stupid, Doctor Pepper. Completely pointless in the scheme of things. Hell, I need the helmet even MORE than the armor."

"Right," Pepper agrees quickly. "And it's a great helmet, but you know what would be even greater? If you came upstairs with me and took a little lie-down. You've done . . ." she looks around the disaster area that was neat and tidy three days ago and winces, "a *lot* Tony, and it's time to take a little break, all right? Just a chance to stretch out."

Tony pulls off the helmet and drops it heavily on the worktable surface. "What about the spiders? I'm not scared of them, but if they get into the helmet, I *miiiiight* freak out a little. You understand that, right? I mean spiders right in my face . . ." he shudders. "Spiders sort of suck."

"I . . . I brought a spider deterrent with me," Pepper assures him, thinking of the fat, furry hunter hiding somewhere up in the living room. "And trust me, he eats spiders for breakfast. And any other meal."


	12. Chapter 12

Tony slowly wakes up, his dull senses sluggishly prodding him from within. Mostly it's his bladder complaining, although others related to the bathroom vie for his attention as well. He groans softly and opens his eyes, which is difficult.

The ceiling above isn't that of his bedroom. Or the workshop, for that matter. It's the third most familiar ceiling, and Tony realizes he's in the living room. From the light, it's nearly mid-morning, and something heavy is on his . . . well, not his chest, precisely.

Something warm.

He looks down, into a fuzzy, interested face and tenses. The fat cat takes this as permission to yawn, revealing pointy fangs and a raspy tongue.

"The hell?" Tony mumbles, and in a fleeting rush of images, the night before flashes through his mind: _Armor, Village People, hair, Pepper, spiders, Pepper—_

He takes a chance. "Lou?"

The cat flicks an ear, and stomps his way down Tony's torso, hitting the bladder hard as he leaps off the sofa. Tony groans in pain and sits up, fighting the urge to curse. A blanket slides off him and he looks around to see a body on the floor.

Pepper, lying on the fur rug, curled up with one of the sofa throw pillows under her head. She's sound asleep and to his eyes, beautiful, even in the weird clothes. Tony blinks, trying to focus, and runs a hand over his chin, feeling skuzzy even as he continues to stare at Pepper.

"Jarvis, whisper mode. What is Doctor Potts doing here?" he asks.

"Doctor Potts is participating in that state of restful non-activity known as 'sleep.'" Jarvis whispers back.

"Stop being a literalist pain in the ass and answer the implied question," Tony hisses, feeling his head start to throb. He rubs his temples. "Why is she here? She wasn't due to show up until . . . what, Wednesday?"

"Today IS Wednesday, sir; however, Doctor Potts arrived late yesterday night in response to your phone call."

"I called her?" Tony's brows contract. "God I was out of it. Why did I call her?"

"To summarize the content of your call, it involved needing a haircut and a fear of spiders," Jarvis tells him, "although I suspect the latter was a byproduct of sleep deprivation and sedative withdrawal."

"Oh God," Tony groans softly. "Juuuuuust peachy. You're still running the false video?"

"As per your instructions. There is no record of her arriving or her presence here," Jarvis assures him, "although I cannot vouch for any record of her departure from her residence."

Tony looks up. "Jarvis, is Obie spying on Pepper _outside _of her visits here?"

"I cannot say without further investigation, but given Mr. Stane's prior actions, it may be a possibility," the AI points out.

"Find out. You have authorization to search any and all of Obie's use of SI tech. If you find records, set up a false feed, or if that's not possible, sabotage whatever Obie's got in place. Make it look accidental," Tony orders, rubbing his eyes. "I need something to drink."

On the floor, Pepper makes a groaning noise and rolls; Tony catches a flash of bare skin between her shirt and sweatpants as she begins to wake up. It's a lovely sight, but he turns quickly so she won't catch him staring.

"Marble; not orthopedically recommended," she grumbles, sitting up and rubbing a hip. "How are you this morning, Mr. Stark?"

"Um, better. You didn't have to stay. I'm glad you did though," he rushes on, trying not to sound ungrateful. "I was a little energetic last night."

"You were completely hyper," Pepper corrects, still frowning. "Something I _did _try to warn you about, although I blame myself for not keeping a closer eye on you. Let's get your vitals and we'll do something about our collective blood sugar."

'Doing something' translates into scrambled eggs, and Tony watches, fascinated as Pepper makes him help her by fetching dishes and grating cheese.

"This is manual labor!" he protests half-heartedly.

"So is putting together a suit of armor, Mr. Stark."

"That's different," Tony grunts. "That's engineering!"

"So is cooking," she tells him firmly. "Pay attention."

With a little more coaching, he manages to finish his part of the work and waits as Pepper stirs the cheese in and cooks. It feels weird and good at the same time as memories of his mother rise in the back of his mind. When Pepper slips a plate in front of him, he blinks and smiles.

"Thanks."

"It's all right—Lou!" she sighs as a furry cannonball launches from the floor to the counter and begins nosing at Tony's plate. "Get down, you mooch!"

"He's . . . not shy, is he?" Tony mutters, pulling his plate away protectively, "and you weren't kidding about the big part, sheesh."

"Lou has his own gravitational field," Pepper agrees with a sigh. "And his mindset is that if you're eating anything, he gets a cut. He can have some of mine . . . . I need to take him home; you don't have a litter box and he's liable to . . . um . . ."

"No problem," Tony mutters, and whistles. Lou pricks up his ears, but is still focused on the plate of eggs. Dummy rolls in and stops at the doorway of the kitchen; Tony speaks to him. "Get one of the long flat medical bins and fill it with clean sand from the building supplies. Set it . . ." He looks at Pepper.

"In one of the bathrooms," She suggests, "But you don't have to do that; we need to get going."

"I know, I know," Tony tells her, reluctantly handing over a forkful of eggs to Lou, who chomps on them happily. "But until you do go, he's got someplace TO go, and anyway, you can't leave me with my hair looking like this."

That distracts her, and she smirks. Tony knows he should be annoyed about that, but he isn't. "How bad _is _it?"

"See for yourself while I get Lou his own dish," Pepper suggests and there is something in her tone of voice that gives him reason to believe it's probably worse than he knows.

It is. In the bathroom Tony stares in horror at himself, then breaks into a laugh at the reflection. At his feet, Dummy is industriously filling the box with sand, and it's rising nearly to the top edges.

"Whoah, whoah, I don't think it needs that much," Tony warns, looking down. "Stop."

Dummy backs off, and the bag he is holding trails sand along the bathroom tile. Tony sighs. "Clean up all sand not IN the box. I swear you live up to your name every day."

When he steps out, Pepper is tucking the last of the dishes into the dishwasher; she looks at him. "So?"

"So. I think I need a trim," Tony admits. "Can you-?"

He watches her blink a little. "I can try," Pepper admits. "I'm not great at cutting hair, but I can at least fix it up a bit."

They go to the living room because Pepper insists the light is best there, and after Tony wets his hair again, he settles onto a low stool, feeling awkward. "You know, the last time I got my hair cut by someone else was about two days before . . . the crash. My mom wanted me to get it cut because we were going to be going to Italy, and she wanted me to look good for the trip . . ." he tells Pepper quietly. "I didn't want one. Mom's idea of a haircut was something short enough for a recruiting poster, and I was considering a ponytail at the time, but I figured what the hell, I could always start growing it after we got back . . ."

There's a quiet, tactful pause, and Pepper speaks up. "You've got very nice hair; very thick." Her fingers are raking through it, and suddenly Tony feels a rush of shock and pleasure as the sensation registers.

Touch. Touch feels SO good. He squirms a little. Pepper is massaging his scalp a bit, and the sensation is nothing short of exquisite. He fights not to react, but it's difficult.

Hard, one could say.

Above and behind him, Pepper speaks again, clearly unaware of her effect. "I'm going to trim it evenly as best I can; I'm not sure what you used to cut it before, but um, I wouldn't suggest doing it again that way."

"T-tin shears," Tony admits. "They were handy, and um, safer than the microlaser."

"Tony!" and he feels a sudden tiny tap against the back of his head. A light, affectionate gesture of exasperation, so much like the ones his mother used to give him when he was younger.

He relaxes a bit and closes his eyes, all the better to enjoy himself.

Pepper speaks softly. "Protein, hydration and rest are all going to help you overcome the side effects of coming off the Luminal, but you really do need to be aware that it's going to be a while before your system is clean, Tony. You're going to be irritable and hyper at times."

"So what you're saying is that Obie isn't going to notice anything different about me," Tony quips back.

"What I'm *saying* is that last night isn't going to be an isolated incident," Pepper warns. She comes to his left side, and her fingers shift through his hair again, touch delicate and gentle as she catches some of it between her fingers and snips it. Pepper leans close, and Tony can feel her passing into his personal space.

It should be awkward, but it's not. It feels . . . intimate. He realizes he's holding his breath.

"Maybe you have an inverse reaction to Luminal," she grumbles, and Tony feels her exhalation on his cheek, like a little kiss of air.

"Maybe," he agrees absently. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for calling," Pepper returns, running a comb along the section she's just trimmed. "Are you going to shave your beard, too?"

He flexes his chin thoughtfully. "I'll need to, if I want to be comfortable in the helmet, although I hate to see it go. If I shave it all off, I look like a kid."

"So keep part of it," Pepper suggests.

"What, like a goatee or something?"

"That could work," comes her thoughtful agreement. "Will you need help?"

Tony shoots her a sidelong glance and Pepper speaks again, fingers still moving. "I work with the differently abled, Mr. Stark, fitting them with prosthetics and teaching them how to use them; I do know something about personal care."

He strokes his chin thoughtfully, feeling the scratch of the beard he's had for so long. "We'll see. If I like the hair; maybe."

When Pepper announces she's done, Tony rises and heads to the closest mirror, hearing her follow behind him. He leans over the bathroom sink, amazed at the reflection while she leans against the doorframe, smiling gently.

"I look . . ."

"Civilized?" she responds cheekily.

Tony turns and grins. "Something like that. My head feels lighter, that's for sure. Now for the beard."

This proves to be trickier, since the only razor in the entire mansion is his father's old electric Norelco, found after an hour of searching. Tony himself only vaguely remembers how to shave, and studies the device for a moment before Pepper picks it up and plugs it in.

"Sit," she directs him to lean on the edge of the sink.

Tony does. It's getting to be a habit; this following directions thing, and he isn't sure he likes it, but when Pepper moves in closer, he realizes why he's doing it. This isn't a matter of logic, but of something else; something more immediately important.

Proximity.

He likes it when she's this close to him; could come to crave it, in fact. Pepper is endlessly fascinating to watch and breathe in and listen to, from her cornflower blue eyes to the velvet sweep of her lashes to the comma of a dimple on her cheek when she smiles.

She is pretty, and she is _real._

The rotary heads of the razor roll over his cheek, and Pepper brings him back to the moment at hand. "Lean right, stretch a little so we can get this closer," she directs, and Tony does so, feeling the pull of the blades. Part of his mind is already redesigning the damned thing; he could have a prototype out in a few hours. The other parts though, are drinking in the sensation of Pepper within touching distance.

He's getting an erection. It's dumb and pointless and embarrassing as hell because Tony knows not only is Pepper spoken for, she's also his doctor, and working for his company and a thousand other reasons, none of which matter because his damned body is seriously in charge right now.

Then she lightly grips his chin and tips his head the other way. The _feel _of those fingers sends a throb through him. Not all the way through him, just in a certain place. Pepper concentrates on the shaver and Tony guiltily concentrates on her.

"I had lunch with a friend yesterday," Pepper begins shortly. "I know I didn't ask you about bringing anyone else into this, Mr. Stark, but I think it's important someone outside of Stark Industries knows where I am and what's going on."

Her voice quavers a little, and dimly Tony realizes she's nervous.

She should be; his anger rises. "What?"

"Tony, I'm expendable and you're not. If something should happen to me, you need someone who knows the whole story out there."

He grits his teeth. "Yeah," comes his reluctant admission, "but we could have talked about it first. Who is it—your boyfriend?"

That comes out a bit more harshly than he intended.

Pepper's jaw tightens; Tony is in a position to see it clearly, and her expression is both mulish and embarrassed. "No. Phil's gone. This is a _friend_, Mr. Stark—Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes. I trust him."

Tony waits a moment, then calls up, "Jarvis? Look up this Rhodes and read it off."

"Certainly, sir. Rhodes, James Rupert, born in Philadelphia—"

"Skip the biography, just give me the highlights," Tony instructs as Pepper works the electric razor along his throat. Jarvis reads off an impressive list of achievements and commendations into the silence, ending with two recent tours of duty in Afghanistan.

"Okay—" Tony cuts off Jarvis and lets his gaze meet Pepper's. "So. Yeah, he's the stuff heroes are made of, sure. Anything else I should know about him?"

Pepper manages a small, relaxed smile. "He's a good guy, Tony, and you'll like him."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony brushes it off, feeling embarrassed at her relief. And his own. "We'll be bestest pals I'm sure—you trust him with all this?"

"Yes," Pepper pulls the razor back and lightly blows on it. "He's helping me search—"

Jarvis breaks in, his smooth tone ever so slightly ruffled.

"—Begging your pardon Doctor Potts, but my monitors have just detected the approach of Mr. Stane's Bugatti Veyron on the outer periphery of the estate. I suggest the doctor move her vehicle into the garage and ensconce herself somewhere upstairs."

"Fuck!" Tony groans, and pushes himself off the sink edge, eyes wide. "What the hell—he's eight hours early!"

"I'll just go-" Pepper breaks in, quickly setting the razor down and trying to brush past Tony as they wedge in the bathroom door at the same time. Tony enjoys the press against her, but it's momentary, secondary in consideration of more urgent matters.

"No! He'll see your car coming down the drive, and that's not a confrontation either of us wants. Just—do it Jarvis' way. Get your car in the garage and go upstairs. Jarvis—how long do we have?"

"Eight minutes, although I can delay Mr. Stane another three at the gate."

"Do it. Pepper . . ."Tony looks to her, his resolve sharp. "I can handle Stane here in the house; I can. Just get the car moved and upstairs . . . please."

She does. Tony runs to the workshop and watches anxiously on the monitors: one tracks Obie, driving up PCH like a contender at Le Mans. The other is on Pepper as she scampers down the front steps and throws herself into her Lexus. She gets it started, and Tony relaxes for a moment until something soft brushes at his ankles.


	13. Chapter 13

Pepper holds her breath and tries to relax. Here in the dusty quiet of the master bedroom closet floor she can feel her pulse jumping in an erratic beat at her temples. She looks up at the rows of suits and coats hanging over her head and absently counts them, all the ones on this side of the closet and then all the ones on the other side.

Forty-seven all together.

Pepper wonders why. Tony doesn't go out; he's not a tidy dresser at home, and yet the suits are there, neat and pressed.

She pictures him trying things on and chatting to the robots, looking a bit like Rodney the rat in the movie _Flushed Away_. That is, playing at having fun without actually having any. It's a picture full of pathos, and for a moment she's distracted from the terrifying reality of Obadiah Stane downstairs.

"Jarvis?"

"Yes Doctor Potts?"

"What's going on? Does Mr. Stane know . . ."

"He seems to be unaware of your presence. Do you wish to monitor their conversation?"

"Yes," Pepper tells him gratefully, and a second later, the sound of Tony's voice is in the closet.

"—a surprise."

"Well it's about damned time, is all I can say. Shit, Tony—give me that."

Pepper hears some tapping, and then Stane speaks again. "Christ this thing's an antique. I'll get you one of the top of the line numbers so you won't chew half your face off next time. Where the hell did you get this, anyway?"

"Dad's," comes Tony's monotone, and Pepper bites her lip at how sad the tone is.

"Yeah," Stane says with more gentleness than she's ever heard before. "Well Howard always did have an eye for the best in his day. Come here and lift your chin, kid."

For a moment it's quiet, with only the sound of the whirring razor in the void. Pepper realizes that Stane is taking over her job, shaving Tony, and the image startles her because it seems so at odds with what she's seen of the man.

"So why now?" comes his question.

"Yeah well . . . I just thought it was time . . ." Tony mumbles. There's embarrassment in his voice; a hint of blush.

"It's her, isn't it?" Stane grunts back. Pepper hears a bit of gloating in his tone. "The doctor, right? Listen, this is a good first step. She'll appreciate it, believe me. Lean left, kid. Wish this damned thing had a trimmer on it. When was the last time you shaved anyway?"

"What decade is it again?" Tony shoots back, and Pepper hears them both laugh.

"I _knew_ there was a face in there," Stane mutters. "Somewhere. Okay, almost a human again. Are we all done with cleaning up? Because not to ride your ass, but I'm getting on a plane for Afghanistan in three hours and I'd like something to show off there besides my dick, Tony."

"Yeah it's done," comes his response. Pepper stretches her legs out, noting the pairs of sneakers in the closet, but resists counting them. She's relaxing a bit more; Stane has no reason to come upstairs and certainly he's not going to look in the closet.

For a long while she listens half-heartedly as Tony rattles through mounds of specifications and statistics with Stane grunting periodically, or throwing out a technical question.

She's almost on the verge of falling asleep when a loud and distinctive sound echoes over the speaker. It's demanding and annoyed, and heart-stoppingly familiar.

"What the hell is _that_?" Stane calls.

Pepper looks up fearfully. "Jarvis?" She whispers urgently.

"Your feline seems to be unhappy with being sequestered in the kitchen, Doctor Potts," Jarvis reports. "I am open to suggestions."

Pepper is on her feet, trying to think. "Uhhh, can you turn on the water? In the sink? Just a trickle?"

"Yes."

"Okay, do that—try for a stream no wider than a pencil. He'll play with that for a few minutes. Is there anything else you can control in the kitchen, Jarvis?"

Her heart is racing again, but Lou is quiet now, and dimly Pepper hears Tony telling Stane some story about strays on the estate.

"Certainly, Doctor Potts. I can control the stove and ovens, I can run the microwave and appliances—"

"Can you open the refrigerator?" Pepper demands, getting an idea.

"Yes."

"Open the door. Open the meat compartment and leave it that way," Pepper urgently orders. In the background Stane is talking about calling animal control, and Tony is trying to distract him.

"Your feline is responding," Jarvis reports, "And is currently devouring the deli-sliced roast beef."

"Okay," Pepper sighs, "Yeah, he likes that stuff. The kitchen doors are still closed?"

"Yes," Jarvis assures her.

"—they don't bother me," Tony babbles, "Come on, Obie—they're just ferals. No big deal. Most of my music is louder than they are."

"You shouldn't have to put up with that," Stane grumbles."Anyway, I'll be back in a week and if you're still hearing them, we'll get something done, all right?"

Tony mumbles something in vague agreement, and Pepper hears Stane moving around, his footsteps loud on the marble, an audible reminder of his presence. She shifts herself into a little ball, and the incongruity of her situation hits Pepper; she smothers a nervous giggle against the dangling sleeve of a hoodie.

It smells like Tony, and she realizes she knows his scent now.

A good scent; clean and masculine, and as Pepper breathes it in, she thinks of the warm ridge of muscle along the side of his neck and how *much* she would like to lightly sink her teeth against it.

The thought stuns her, and she lets the sleeve of the hoodie drop in guilty response. Phil has been gone less than a week and here she is, fantasizing about her patient.

Again.

Pepper closes her eyes.

Long moments later, the sound of a car engine revving up, and then more footsteps, lighter this time—Tony's—getting closer. She looks towards the half-open door and sees him moving towards her, darting in, big eyes anxiously studying her face.

"He's gone—" Tony tells her, arms reaching out to tug Pepper to her feet and justlikethat she's hugging him, half in relief and half in need of some sort of contact/comfort. This is no gentle hug either; Tony wraps his arms around her and squeezes her tightly, pulling her up against him from ankles to shoulders.

The _heat_ of him startles Pepper, and the hard warmth of Tony's body up against hers makes her moan very softly. He's muscle and heat and Pepper wants to kiss him.

It's not rational or sensible but it's what she wants; urgently she nuzzles him only to find Tony nuzzling back, frantically zeroing in on her lips. It takes a few seconds of confusion and rubbing, but Pepper manages to catch his mouth with hers.

_Hot. Strong. Good- _she thinks dizzily and then she stops thinking, going purely on instinct and need, kissing Tony hard.

He kisses back, arms tightening around her and Pepper feels his entire body tense as a low, utterly masculine groan vibrates into her mouth; a growl of desperate hunger and desire. Her bones melt at the sound, and she clings to Tony for long, mad moments before breaking the wet, sloppy kiss and pressing hard on his shoulders.

"Tony," she gasps, trying to focus on his face, but it's too close. He gasps too, and Pepper feels him trembling, shaking against her.

"Damn it," he moans, and for a moment Pepper doesn't understand . . . and then she does, feeling the dampness against her thigh.

Tony is still shaking, his arms clutching her convulsively, and she fights the urge to giggle, even though it's rolling up from her belly now, so she clutches him even more tightly and lightly presses her teeth into that place along his shoulder.

He sighs. It's not a happy sound of release or even relief; Pepper feels Tony's deep disgrace in the gust of his breath against her neck, and feels hot teardrops wetting her sweatshirt collar.

"It's okay," she whispers, because it is, and runs her hands soothingly along his back. It's a good back, strong and solid under her palms. For a moment Tony is still as stone, then he lightly relaxes, still holding her tightly. Her body tingles with need, but Pepper dutifully pushes it away and focuses on the man in her arms.

He lets loose with a string of obscenities and finishes with a mumbled, "Kill me now, since the humiliation hasn't finished the job."

"Tony, it's all right," Pepper reassures him. "Both of us were pretty needy right then, and things . . . happen."

"Needy? You think that's all it is? Needy?" he grunts and pulls back from her, glaring.

Tony can't quite pull it off now, clean-shaven and trimmed as he is, but still, the misery in his eyes is clear, and Pepper meets his gaze firmly.

"Yes. We _both _needed some human contact, Mr. Stark. We're born with a certain hierarchy of needs, if you've never read Maslow, and human contact is one of them. Now I'm going to let you get . . . cleaned up, and while you're doing that, I'll go extract my cat from your lunchmeats. Are you going to be all right?"

It's a serious question, and Tony rewards her with a crooked smile, one hand sliding down her spine as he reluctantly loosens his grip on her.

"May I kiss you again first?" he whispers, his voice almost boyish in uncertainty.

Pepper wavers, and before she can say yes or no, he leans in again and kisses her once more. This kiss is unbearably tender, a gentle tip of the head and brush of smooth cheek to cheek before Tony's mouth glides to hers and settles in. The rush of desire flares up again in the pit of Pepper's stomach, and she gives a happy little whimper as she kisses back.

One kiss becomes three sweet languid ones, and it's only when Pepper pulls back to breathe that she tries to frown. "You're pushing it, Tony."

"I do that," he admits, smirking, although his eyes still hold a soulful longing in them, "I really . . . this is . . . good," he finishes, awkwardly.

She gets it; understands what he means and what he's trying to say. Carefully Pepper nods and steps back, trying to pick up some of her dignity again.

"Shower, Tony. I need to take samples and check that restricted dispenser before I go."

She escapes, feeling his eyes on her as she slips out of the master bedroom.

Lou is not happy to see her, or to give up his dine-in buffet. Pepper hauls him out of the open fridge and plunks him on the counter, then closes the door. "_You_ are not starving, buddy. Just because you got a meal ticket this time doesn't mean it's going to happen again, you know."

Lou sits and washes a front paw, doing his best post cold-cut cold shoulder routine, and Pepper swears he's rounder than he was last night.

"Jarvis, has Lou um, found his litter box?"

"Indeed, Doctor Potts. He has also made a thorough inspection of every room in the mansion except the workshop, and devoured two spiders, an ancient Cheeto, and two small bits of Christmas tinsel," Jarvis reports dutifully.

"Great," Pepper sighs, "He's all but moved in. Lou, you are a traitor, you know that?" she tells the cat, who merely stares at her a moment, then jumps off the counter with a heavy 'thud' and wanders off into the living room.

Pepper presses her palms on the counter and closes her eyes, trying to prioritize her agenda, but warm insistent memories of moments before keep pushing into her thoughts and leaving her feeling restless.

She needs to leave. Pepper is honest enough to know that if she stays—in this mood and in this hour—things will happen between them. Things that neither of them are ready to deal with. It's not cowardice; it's common sense, and even though it's the right decision, it sucks.

The shower upstairs starts.

She goes to the cupboard and fishes out two bowls, fills one with clean water, and sets them on the floor at the end of one of the counters, out of the way. "Jarvis, can you please make sure one of the 'bots keeps the water filled?"

"Certainly. Are we to be hosting your feline for a while?"

"Yes," Pepper mumbles, "I think so. Did I hear correctly—is Stane going out of the country?"

"He is proceeding to the Stark Industries jetport even now," Jarvis replies. "His itinerary includes stops in New York and Dubai, and he will be returning in seven days."

"Okay," she sighs, "We have some breathing room then."

Pepper goes to the Medical suite and to the dispenser Tony mentioned, examining it closely. "Jarvis?"

"Dismantling it will take a direct order from Mr. Stane; however, I can render it non-functional with an overriding order from you since you are his attending physician," Jarvis tells her calmly. "The contents consist of seventeen remaining capsules of chloral hydrate in a dosage precisely tailored to Mr. Stark's body weight."

Pepper frowns. "Who authorized the prescription?"

"Doctor Yinsen initially; since his departure, various physicians are listed on the manifest."

"Cancel the prescription effective immediately, and stop this thing—" Pepper taps the dispenser, "from handing out any more Mickey Finns to Mr. Stark."

"Yes, Doctor Potts," Jarvis murmurs and Pepper swears she can hear a hint of relief in his tone. The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes her turn, and Tony swings into the medical suite, dressed, damp-haired, a towel still in his hands.

"You didn't _tell _me that Lou likes to watch naked men shower," he deadpans. "Is he-?"

"No. He was straight before he was fixed. He's also a hydro-maniac," Pepper sighs. "And as for telling you, I hadn't planned to bring him in the first place but now that he's here, it might take a crowbar to get him out again."

Tony throws the towel over his shoulder and gives a shrug. "He'll give the 'bots something else to look after; no problem."

"You're not allergic to cats?" she asks.

"Nope. The only thing I've got an allergy to are pine nuts," he tells her with a sigh. "Talk about a heartbreak to an Italian mother."

Pepper smiles crookedly. "I bet. So . . ." she motions for him to sit down. "Now the blood and then I need to go, Mr. Stark."

She sees Tony tighten his jaw, and before she can help herself, she reaches out to cup it. The muscles relax against her palm and for a moment Pepper is humbled at the sense of power she feels.

The amount of trust he's giving her.

"Okay," he mumbles. "But you're coming back, right?"

His dark eyes are impossible to deal with, searching hers anxiously.

"Yes of course I am," she reassures him.


	14. Chapter 14

There's a new sense of urgency inside Tony now, and he turns back to the Suit, his clever fingers working on the circuit relays even as his mind replays the events of the afternoon over and over in his head.

He can't believe he blew his wad like that. Like some thirteen year old dry humping for the first time. Pepper didn't deserve that, and Tony's face flushes with embarrassment even now at the memory. He promises himself the next time everything will be better, especially for her, and with that in mind, Tony directs Jarvis to begin the first of the simulations on the Suit.

By the time Tony makes his way up the stairs, it's almost sunset, and something lump-shaped is lumbering towards him at shin height. He squats and holds out a hand, amused at Lou's disdainful pause.

"So. I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm your host, Tony Stark," he tells the cat, who finally deigns to come closer and rub against him. "Heard you've decided to hang around here."

Lou gives a 'miaow' of agreement, and lets himself be lightly scratched under the chin. Tony grins; the cat's fur is soft and warm under his fingers.

The two of them congenially wander into the kitchen, and Tony peers into the fridge, debating on dinner.

"How do you feel about salami and cheese sandwiches?"

This meets with his guest's approval, and Tony proceeds to make three sandwiches, leaving several slices of both salami and cheese on a plate before taking his own back down to the workshop.

Repulsors.

Tony has been working on them for the better part of eighteen months. Obie doesn't know about them, and now Tony's glad about that, because their capacity as weapons is fairly lethal. It's not that aspect that Tony's interested in at the moment though, and he carefully studies the Suit schematics once more working out the capabilities for lift and thrust.

Later, he tries on the helmet, and it feels comfortable now. Tony calls up Jarvis through it. "Give me the basic grids and feeds."

"Certainly, sir," Jarvis complies, his tone lacking sarcasm for the moment. Tony turns and looks around his workshop, seeing it in a whole new way. He can see the electrical wiring through the walls, can see the density readings of each layer of construction. On infra-red, he spots the large shadowy blob that is Lou, craftily stealing the remains of the forgotten sandwich on the counter. A flick of filters, and Tony now sees Lou's heat reading, a bright flare of yellow light, like a hugely fat tribble.

"Sir—"

"Not now."

It's intriguing, and still wearing the helmet, Tony begins to move, but the power cord is too short, and he grunts in frustration.

"Sir—"

"I'm busy. Damn it, I need to get this hooked up," he snarls, absently rapping on the disc in his chest. "Where the hell is Yinsen when I need him?"

There is no answer to this, and Tony reluctantly returns to the worktable, pulling off the helmet and setting it down again.

"Sir, I have important information," Jarvis breaks into his thoughts quietly but persistently.

"Yeah?"

"Apparently Mr. Stane _has_ been monitoring Doctor Potts at her laboratory at Stark Industries. His viewing habits of the surveillance indicate that he is concerned about her participation in your weekly testing. He has just instructed me to block all drug results from her view."

"Override," Tony instructs automatically. "Bastard. Not you."

"Understood," Jarvis replies calmly. "Further, he is attempting to purge certain classified files pertaining to your arc reactor and the medical files related to it."

"Well stop him!" Tony snaps, feeling a rush of anger.

"I am attempting to do so," Jarvis replies. "I have alerted the fire department and am retrieving the data as quickly as possible."

"Fire department?" Tony stares upwards anxiously, feeling a surge of genuine fear. "What the hell is he *doing?*"

"Mr. Stane has set off two small incendiary devices by remote in Server Room B at Stark Industries Main Office," the AI informs Tony, and brings up a ghostly hologram pulled from one of the hallway cameras. Tony watches as smoke pours out and alarms ring.

Tony lurches forward. "Is everyone out? It's after hours, who's on security duty; get them ON it!"

"In progress, Mr. Stark. No one is in immediate danger, but the data connection is rapidly deteriorating."

"Fuck!" Tony snaps his fingers which brings up one of the worktable monitors. "People are the priority; after that, save the server."

"Yes sir," Jarvis replies, and for a while Tony can only pace and monitor the screens. On impulse, he calls up once more to the AI.

"Anything more?"

"I have successfully secured eighty three percent of the data," Jarvis informs him softly. "The rest has been lost. No personnel have been injured, and assessments of the damage are underway at the moment. Mr. Stane is requesting a report as well."

"Jarvis, you're going to have to falsify part of that," Tony growls. "I don't want him knowing we've got the majority of the personal information. Is that a problem?"

"No sir," comes the quiet reply, "however, I suggest an immediate reconfiguration of my protocols before Mr. Stane considers checking them anytime soon."

"On it. Thanks—" Tony shoots back, and drops himself into the chair at the worktable, his fingers flying over the keyboard. It takes roughly two hours, but Tony has not only reprogrammed the AI's code, but also locked it as well, and has set up a ghost of the original to keep Obie from discovering the changes. It's a delicate balance; Obie isn't quite the expert with computers that Tony is, but he's no fool either, and Tony works hard to cover his tracks before setting the changes in place.

Still, it's a solid piece of work, and Tony feels a flush of triumph when he finishes, knowing it's a first step.

The first step towards reclaiming Stark Industries.

The thought startles him, and Tony glances over at the armor, which is lying on another table, looking like a polished metal effigy of a knight on a tomb. From deep within him, Tony Stark feels a rush of understanding, and he blinks, realizing for the first time how much his life has changed in the last month.

"Jarvis—status report on Server Room B?"

"There are no human casualties or injuries," comes the smooth reply. "Damage to the server is estimated at sixty- two percent, the majority of it non-recoverable. Internal security is investigating under Mr. Stane's authority."

"Obie's either going to sweep it under the rug as a random accident, or blame it on some convenient scapegoat," Tony bitterly sighs. "Damn it, how many years has this been going on? How many times has he . . . you know what? It's over. Doesn't matter. We're going to do things _my_ way now."

"I heartily approve, sir," Jarvis replies loyally. "You have an incoming call from Mr. Stane."

A spasm of panic flashes through Tony but he grimaces. "Pipe it in."

"Tony," comes Stane's voice, low and concerned.

"Obie. What's up? Something not clear on the Jericho specs?" Tony asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Specs are fine. There's been a minor accident at HQ," Stane tells him in a low, serious tone. "We've had a fire in one of the server rooms."

"Shit!" Tony fakes anxiety. "How bad? Anybody hurt?"

"Nobody's hurt. I'm still getting assessments, but it looks like we may have lost the whole thing, kid. I've got a team taking the room apart and seeing what they can recover."

The lie is so smooth that Tony feels a catch in this throat. Obie sounds concerned and upset, just the way he should.

"It's only B, so it's all back-up anyway, right?" Tony chokes out. "What the hell happened? I thought we had alarms."

"Yeah, it's nothing vital. Right now the prelim report says it looks like an overheating problem, but I'll know more when I get back. In the meantime, we'll have to go with the primary server. I'll have McGee and his team set up a temporary replacement for the duration. Pain in the ass, but you know how these things go, right?" Obie chuckles.

Tony grits his teeth, glad that the link isn't visual. "Yeah. You don't think it's sabotage, do you?"

Obie snorts. "Oh sure—who the hell would target the _back-up_ server, Tony? If somebody was trying to do us some serious hurt, they sure picked a lousy way to go."

"Yeah, but we can never be too careful," Tony mumbles, a chill flushing throughout his body.

"Damned right. Listen, you get some sleep and I'll take care of this," Obie lightly orders. "And say hello to that pretty doc of yours. Night, Tony."

For long minutes after the call is over, Tony feels like vomiting.

He stares blankly around the workshop, but instead of doing anything there, Tony trudges upstairs and wanders aimlessly for a while, finally making his way to the master bedroom. The air is cooler up here, and smells of the sea, so he knows Jarvis has had the windows open a while.

Tony kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the bed, tense and unhappy. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his head, but his thoughts are an angry buzz of hurt and fury, and for a moment he longs for the mind-dulling peace of the restricted meds dispenser.

He feels a sudden shift in the mattress, and looks over; in the dim light, Tony makes out the shape of Lou, who is wandering over, sniffing delicately at the sheets. "Wow. Nothing personal cat, but you really _are_ a ball of lard. You know that, right?"

Lou ignores this, and moves closer, inspecting Tony's hip until he finds just the right spot. He drops heavily and curls up, his warm weight against the edge of Tony's waist.

Carefully, slowly, Tony moves his hand and slowly pets the big cat. Lou begins to purr, and the sound is a low, contented rumble that fills a lot of the empty space in the room.

Tony speaks. "Okay. I wouldn't usually consider sharing bed space with another guy, but I'll make an exception for tonight. I'm not in a great mood to begin with, and I've got a lot to think about. Mind if I unload?"

Lou continues to purr. Tony, taking that as acquiescence, starts talking.

"I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm what they call 'agoraphobic', Lou. This isn't the way I want to live anymore, so I'm building a suit to bring my indoor lifestyle outdoors. I need to speed up the process because I've got a very big suspicion that my days are numbered, and if that's the case, then I'd like to spend a few of them paying back some people I owe. Like Pepper. And Hogan. And all seven hundred and fifty-six employees of Stark Industries HQ for one.

"Because the truth is, Stane . . ." Tony falters for a moment, then continues, his voice grim, "I don't trust him. And I'm tired of letting him use my talents and my company to run his secret agenda. There's a lot I'm just realizing now, but a big eye-opener is that if I don't start living, Obie is going to keep me dying like this, inch by inch."

The reassuring rumble coming from Lou makes Tony smile. Then he yawns, and closes his eyes.

_The darkness is there, inky tendrils pouring from around the frame of the door, moving towards him. Tony tries to move, but his feet won't respond. He can't back up, he can't go forward and this time he hears voices._

_He *knows* those voices._

Tony wakes up with a wrenching shudder, and behind his arc, his heart is racing in hard, painful thuds. He rolls to his side, trying to relax, all too aware that the Red Squeeze is lingering just on the edge of his world, waiting to move in and claim him.

_Breathe_, he thinks, and looks over across the rumpled blankets. Lou's big rounded butt is there, tail neatly curled around his back paws. Tony concentrates, counting the lines of the cat's tabby markings along Lou's heavy flank. He does it again, and again, and finally, slowly, the fear ebbs away, and his chest loosens.

_Almost normal._ Something is nagging deep in his brain, but everything else is almost normal.

Tony yawns a little, and then moves to get up, looking around the room, not thinking of anything in particular. He rubs his chin, decides against shaving, reconsiders, and heads into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror.

He decides a goatee would probably be good.

Carefully he picks up the electric razor and begins to shave, the process a lot less painful this time, a lot easier than the day before.

It's only when Tony's almost finished that he realizes what has been bothering him, and he sets the razor down to stare at his reflection.

"Oh fuck," he growls, thinking back on the conversation with Obie.

Tony realizes he's slipped up, and Obadiah Stane is too damned sharp not to have caught it.

He lunges out the door for the workshop, painfully aware now that if he doesn't have the Suit done before the Stark jet returns from Afghanistan, both he and Pepper are screwed.


	15. Chapter 15

Pepper walks up to the clinic, feeling a tension through her shoulders as curious eyes watch her. Some of those glances are distinctly unfriendly, and she knows her hair and complexion are making her stand out here in the shabby little neighborhood of mosques and shops with barred windows. She checks her list again: four addresses crossed off; this is the last on the piece of paper. She hurries on, checking the address against the ones on the buildings, but not all of them have visible numbers, and finally it's by sheer luck that she recognizes the medical staff over the door of the clinic. Cautiously Pepper pushes open the dusty glass door to see the entire waiting room go silent at her appearance.

She blushes, and a young clerk at the desk frowns at her. "May I help you?" the girl asks in a courteous but defensive tone. Pepper makes her way up to the window and smiles apologetically.

"I'm here to see Doctor Yinsen."

The clerk's reaction is unusual. At all the other places that Pepper's visited, the first comment is that they don't have anyone by that name, followed by questions, offers of other doctors, directions and requests for information. Here, the clerk glances left and licks her lips before saying, "You have the wrong place, Miss."

Pepper feels otherwise; a little frisson on excitement surges through her and she smiles gently. "I hope not. I've come a long way to deliver a message to him from Tony."

The clerk hesitates, then holds up a finger, picks up a phone receiver, and then speaks into it in a low whisper. Pepper doesn't know what's been said, but she hears 'Tony' repeated.

She steps to the side and waits. In the room, the noises pick up again: a baby is whimpering, two younger children are in some sort of a poking contest; an older man hums loudly in the way the deaf do when they forget the hearing of others.

After a few minutes, a lean, bearded man in a doctor's coat comes around the corner and leans on his cane as he surveys the room, his sharp eyes quickly finding Pepper. He waves gently to her, and she comes over to him, prepared to go yet another round in the quest.

"So . . . you are seeking Doctor Yinsen," the man muses. "I am sorry to tell you that there is nobody here by that name, Miss. You have come a long way for naught."

"I . . ." she hesitates and continues, "Don't think I have. I'm on a mission for my patient, Tony, who believes that Doctor Yinsen still exists. He needs the doctor's help."

The man looks at her patiently for a long moment, his expression kind and yet cautious; Pepper suddenly realizes in a rush of certainly that her quest is at an end.

"A message," the man murmurs. "And what would that be?"

Pepper draws in a breath and looks over her shoulder at the waiting room; sensing her reticence, the man nods to the hall behind him, and motions for her to follow. He and Pepper step further into the building, moving to stand near an ancient drinking fountain.

She speaks, her voice low and firm. "Tony said to tell you that he needs your help to get away from Stane and to get his company back to his father's original mission."

The man locks gazes with her for a long moment and then gives a tiny sigh. "So the sparrow finally sees the hawk for what he is. But as I told you, Yinsen no longer exists."

Pepper nods. "You're right. He probably doesn't. However, if I was looking for him, I'd focus on a middle-eastern doctor of about five eleven, between sixty-six and seventy years old with glasses and alopecia. A man who speaks fluent English with a slight accent. A man who _hasn't_ asked Tony's last name."

It's a tense moment, but to Pepper's relief the man merely chuckles sweetly, his eyes bright behind his spectacles. He looks her over once again, in quick assessment, and then, coming to a decision, nods and holds out his hands. When Pepper extends her own, he hooks his cane over his forearm and grasps hers with both of his, patting it gently.

His hands are large, and warm.

"Clearly Tony Stark has found an ally in you, Miss . . .?"

"Doctor. Doctor Virginia Potts," Pepper tells him, her voice thick with relief. "I'm his attending physician."

"I see. Come, let us find a quiet place to talk, Doctor."

He leads the way down the hall, and Pepper follows as they pass examining rooms and nurse stations, making a turn until offices appear. The man ushers her into an office, and pulls a beautifully carved screen across the door, smiling apologetically at Pepper. "Traditions die hard here in the community, and I have no wish to offend the rest of my staff. We have privacy though, I assure you. So. My name is Doctor Agassi . . . now."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor Agassi," Pepper nods. He offers her a chair and moves to sit behind the desk himself. The room is cool and beautiful; thick Persian rugs line the floor and a huge carved bookcase stands along one wall, full of medical tomes and other leather-bound books. Pepper notes that there are no medical diplomas on the walls though, only family photos.

She looks again at the man across the desk, who is rubbing his white beard with one hand.

"Where to begin," he sighs. "Perhaps with Agassi. My wife's family name, and a common one here in the community. I took it for my own when I came back from the dead."

Pepper nods. "The reports seemed to indicate you'd died—that your body was probably washed out to sea. What happened?"

Yinsen gave a slight wince. "Stane happened." Shifting slightly, his face grew serious as he looked at Pepper. "I worked for Stark Industries in their medical research facilities nearly twenty-five years ago, Doctor Potts. It's hard to remember that back then AIDS was _just_ being reported, that the Internet was still in its infancy, and so much of what we take for granted wasn't around yet, much less in common use. However," Yinsen continued, "At Stark Industries, we were ahead of the curve. The Arc technology was in place, and although it was deemed unfeasible by the engineers, Obadiah and Tony both knew of it. Tony himself was the one who suggested building it for his chest."

"Yes, his chest," Pepper leans forward. "I've read everything I can about the accident, and although Tony and I have a degree of trust now, he hasn't talked much about the implant. Whatever files you had on it are restricted, and although Tony seems fine . . ." Pepper holds her hands up helplessly, "I can't really tell. Is it a pacemaker? An artificial heart?"

"A little of both," Yinsen nods. "Tony's accident was . . ."

"No accident," Pepper finishes, "yes, I realize that now. Someone deliberately killed the Starks, and very nearly killed Tony."

"Yes," Yinsen agrees. "An assassination. At the time, all of us thought it was the work of foreign agents, terrorists with some political agenda against Howard. He'd certainly received enough threats in his time. I was on-duty when the accident happened, so I joined the initial surgery team that worked on Tony—when the x-rays showed the shrapnel, we didn't have much time to come up with a plan of action, so I suggested putting a temporary plate and hooking it up to a battery while we dealt with the rest of his injuries."

Pepper blinks. "That's . . . ingenious."

Yinsen shrugs modestly. "It had been used in the Middle East in their triage against Stark weapons for a few years. Nobody in the emergency room knew that, but afterwards, Stane congratulated me on the procedure."

Pepper says nothing, but her expression makes Yinsen's gaze narrow. He leans forward and speaks again. "I'm sure you realize how dangerous that man is. At the time I was first attending Tony, I did not. Stane gave me everything I wanted for the boy: medical facilities, technology, unlimited access to records and research. It was . . . heady. And Tony was a good boy. He was weak, physically of course, but his constitution was amazing. Within a few weeks he was up and walking, carrying the battery with him in a bag over his shoulder."

"How large a battery was it?" Pepper asks, curious now.

"A twelve volt off of a Siemens EKG machine," Yinsen tells her gently. "He didn't like how it cut into his mobility, even though he understood why he needed it. Tony drew up plans for all sorts of alternatives, but he kept coming back to the arc technology."

"I've seen pictures of the original—it's huge. You're telling me that the thing on Tony's chest is . . .?"

" . . . The same, but miniaturized, yes," Yinsen finishes for her. "The first version fit well enough that the bio-mesh frame didn't even need anti-rejection medications. That alone was fairly miraculous of course, but when Tony built the arc to go into it, well . . . I knew the boy was more than a genius; he was gifted in a way that few engineers ever would be."

"He still is," Pepper responds quietly. "What were his other injuries?"

"A broken thigh; his right, a severe contra-coup concussion and some fractures along his ribs," Yinsen tells her. "He was in the back seat and leaning forward when the charge under the hood of the car went off. Maria and Howard took the brunt of it, and what shrapnel reached Tony went into his chest. We did extensive neurological testing, but Stane insisted on complete isolation and privacy. We moved Tony to his Malibu home about a year later when he was recovered, physically."

There is a hesitation at the end of his statement, and Pepper's lips thin. She leans forward, her expression serious. "How about mentally? Did he get any counseling, any therapy?"

"Stane forbade it," Yinsen replies bleakly. "He insisted that Tony was fully capable of dealing with the death of his parents and his new status as an invalid without any intervention from mental services. I and my staff argued with him on the issue frequently, and I think that if I hadn't been the medical authority, Stane would have dismissed me . . . or worse. As it was, many of us spoke with Tony and offered what help we could. He was . . . lost," Yinsen admits softly, "and when his insomnia became serious, I prescribed drugs. When the standard sedatives stopped working, I was forced to go to chloral hydrate in the lowest dose possible. By then Tony was living in his mansion, and I noted that he was becoming more and more prone to panic attacks. At first I thought it was a delayed reaction to his horrific experiences—post traumatic stress of the worst sort."

"What happened?" Pepper demands, feeling a little breathless now.

"Then," Yinsen murmurs slowly, "I found anomalies in his blood work. There were traces of drugs—nothing I'd ordered or known about. I was stunned, and angry. That was my undoing. Normally I am not an impetuous or impulsive man, but this outrage blinded me to all else. I drove to see Stane and showed him the results."

"He admitted to drugging Tony . . . ." Yinsin reaches long fingers under his glasses and rubs his eyes, speaking quickly now. "I argued with him and threatened to go to the authorities. Stane told me to sleep on it, and we would come to a compromise the next day. Like a fool, I believed him. I called my wife, and on my way home . . . I was forced off the road by a dark van."

Pepper blinks, saying nothing, but feeling herself go pale.

"My family found me first. Odd, but my wife told me later that she'd had a premonition after our call, and to this day I cannot thank her enough. They took the reverse route, found me and brought me to this very clinic, where I was taken care of. Permanent knee damage, and quite a concussion—I was about a four on the Rancho Los Amigos scale. It took me nearly half a year to be able to function again, and by then, trying to reach Tony was impossible. I'd been all but declared dead, Stane had him locked away in that mansion, and I was purged from all access of any kind."

"Four," Pepper repeats, looking stunned. "That could have been fatal."

"It could have," Yinsen agrees softly, "but it was not. Still, my recovery was remarkably good. I changed my name and stayed here, in the community, doing what I can to help the people of this neighborhood. Yet all this time I have harbored guilt, Doctor Potts. Such guilt at leaving Tony in the hands of Obadiah Stane. I've been waiting to read of his death, but the solitude, the exile seems even worse. How . . ." for a moment Yinsen seems to falter, but then he clears his throat and looks beseechingly at Pepper. "How _is _he?"

Pepper takes a deep breath, and tells him. She starts with her first day; her first impressions of Tony all alone in his big glass palace, a shaggy hermit undernourished and ill, and describes her own discoveries in the test results on his urine and blood. Yinsen listens intently, stroking his beard once in a while, nodding.

When she tells about Tony reacting to her discoveries and this changing and taking charge, Yinsen smiles, ever so faintly and there is the gleam of pride behind his glasses.

Pepper covers the last few weeks hastily, mentioning Stane's trip out of the country, not touching on the moments of sweet madness with Tony in the closet, but feeling herself blush just the same, and she ends with, " . . . so Tony's beginning to reach out and part of that is trying to find you. He needs your help with his latest project."

"My help?" Yinsen murmurs, surprised and curious, "but I'm nobody; I haven't worked with bioengineering or arc technology in the last twenty years, Doctor Potts."

"Call me Pepper," Pepper murmurs sincerely. "And I don't think that matters, Doctor Agassi."

"Please call me Yinsen," he returns with a gentle smile.

Pepper smiles back. "All right. The truth is, Tony needs _you_. He's reclaiming his life, and you were an instrumental part of it. Even if you're only there for moral support, my patient—my _friend-_needs you. Will you come see him?"

Yinsen takes in a deep breath, but there's no hesitation in his firm reply. "Yes. Let me call my wife and let her know I'll be home late," he chuckles mildly. "It's time I had dinner with an old friend."


	16. Chapter 16

Tony has his metal-encased hands on the panes of the sliding glass doors. Behind him, the power cord trails like a long bright orange tail on the marble floor, and outside before him, the warm blue of the Pacific Ocean is visible just beyond the balcony.

The balcony he's never been on.

He's nervous and energized yet tired, despite a three-hour nap at the insistence of Jarvis. The helmet is working perfectly, and through it, Tony can see the afternoon light, filtered and beautiful, the tiny ripples of waves on the skin of the water. There are a few wispy clouds, and he hears the soft susurration of the waves down below.

Jarvis has assured him that no one is within fifteen miles at the moment, and that all systems in the armor are online and functional. Tony is comfortable in the armor; cushioned and comforted by the slight press of it all around him.

This surprises him, because initially he worried about claustrophobia, but the lightness and flexibility of the Suit makes it feel more like slightly bulky clothing rather than a metal casing.

Tony's unbelievably excited.

Part of him wishes Pepper was here; this is a groundbreaking venture, and something she'd be proud of him for attempting it, but another part—a smaller, less confident part of him—wants this first shot in privacy, should he fail.

After all, Tony doesn't want pity, least of all from the one person who understands what this all _means._

"Okay, open the pod bay doors, Hal," Tony mutters, tongue-in-cheek, heart pounding madly.

"Ah, humor," Jarvis responds, and gently, slowly, the two window panes slide apart in silence.

Tony sways a little, bracing himself. He counts in his head, slow steady numbers, fighting the tiny spasms running along his skin under the armor. In front of his eyes, the projected gauges and holographic windows begin relaying information, giving him temperatures, distances, depths and atmospheric information. The readings fascinate him, and he swings his gaze from left to right, taking in the horizon in one slow sweep.

It's beautiful.

He shudders, aware of the shift in perspective, the view that he's had so long now so much richer, so much . . . closer. Tony hesitates, then, before he can change his mind, takes a step forward.

He's in the doorway. IN the doorway, half-way between the comfort of home behind him, and the beckoning blue before him.

A place he hasn't been in decades.

Tony blinks, trying to focus through the trickle in his eyes, looking again at what's in front of his visor. The smooth concrete balcony, the perfectly fitted flagstones underfoot, the tendrils of foxtail dangling from the planters above, making a thin green curtain above the spectacular panorama.

Tony's mesmerized.

"It's beautiful," he whispers brokenly. "So damned beautiful. Jarvis, who did this place; what's the architect's name again?"

"John Lautner. Sir, your feline guest seems determined to-"

Tony looks down; Lou is trotting out, having squeezed his plumpness through Tony's planted boots. He ambles forward and plops himself in a convenient patch of sunshine, blinking contentedly.

Just looking at him, Tony feels himself relax a bit, feels his pulse rate slow ever so slightly. "He seems . . . fine."

"Indeed," Jarvis agrees. "Are _you_ experiencing any difficulties, sir?"

Tony doesn't answer right away, instead, he takes another step forward, and now he and the Suit are OUT on the balcony.

He drinks in the new view, looking down the long curve of the terrace as it hugs the building, and then Tony turns his head, scanning the endless beauty of horizon, seeing where the light touches the end of the world.

Tony shudders, and this time, the emotion driving it isn't fear. He grins broadly, swinging his arms a little and making Lou look up warily. "God! I have a fan-TAS-tic view! Jarvis! This is fuckin' primo!"

"Quite so, sir," Jarvis agrees in the delicate humoring tone that an orderly uses to with a mental patient. Tony doesn't care; he's overwhelmed by the moment and gives a little whoop.

"I want to see the water. I want to see the _depth_ down there!" Tony announces, and steps forward again. The power cord drags behind him with a soft slithering sound, but he moves, step by step until he's at the low balcony wall.

He lays his steel-encased hands on it, and peers down; below, the foamy crests of breaking waves hit the rocks and recede, leaving lacy designs across the water. Tony flicks his glance to change the setting, and now he sees the ocean floor far below the surface. Strands of kelp drift in the sway of the waves, and Tony sees the flicker of small fish moving through them.

It's beautiful and overwhelming; he laughs again, drinking in the sights and sounds, lost in joy for the moment.

"Sir," Jarvis speaks again, his tone ever so slightly apologetic, "There is a boat approaching along the southern side, two nautical miles out and coming closer; I suggest you withdraw at this time."

Startled, Tony looks up and the telescopic lens on the visor pulls the cruiser into view. He can see the three people on the deck; one of them is fussing with a telephoto camera, trying to get the lens cap off.

None of them have spotted him.

Tony growls. "Great. First time in twenty years I go outside, and we've got Peeping Toms. Hey you kids! Get off my panoramic view!" he shouts, and turns, moving back along the power cord trail, slipping back through the glass doors.

It feels odd to return to the dimness; comforting, but a little stale after all the sunshine and color.

"Sir—" Jarvis murmurs, and Tony reaches to pull a long loop of the power cord free of the panes, which roll shut. Outside, Lou rolls, exposing maximum belly acreage to the healing rays of the sun.

"Well, I think we could call that a success," Tony murmurs, pleased to the point of grinning smugness. "I did it. I DID it, Jarvis!"

"O frabjous day," the AI responds, "Callooh. Callay."

Tony glances upward, but his mood is too good to be annoyed. He pulls the helmet off, shakes his head and gives a deep sigh. "Enough already—this really is _big_ you know."

"Forgive my glibness; I _am _aware of the significance of your achievement, sir, and I congratulate you," Jarvis replies quietly. "You have an incoming call from Doctor Potts."

"Pepper!" Tony calls up to the ceiling, "You'll never guess!"

"Tony, I *found* him."

"I went out—wait, what?" Tony blinks. "Found who?"

"Doctor Yinsen," Pepper tells him softly, her voice full of sweet hope. "He's alive, and . . . he wants to see you."

"Oh fuck," Tony murmurs, feeling wobbly. He staggers over to the piano and sits heavily on the bench, the armor making a 'thunk' against the lacquered wood. "You are fucking kidding me! He's actually _alive?_ Obie lied to me _again? _Shit, at this rate I'm going to need a scorecard. He's alive?" Tony runs a gauntlet through his hair and blinks hard, tears wetting his lashes.

"Tony, yes. Are . . . are you okay?" Pepper sounds worried, and Tony laughs, his chuckle tinged with hysteria.

"Yes. Yes! I'm fine, Doctor Potts. God—he wants to see me? Now?"

"Well the sooner the better," Pepper reminds him. "With Stane out of the country . . ."

"Right," Tony agrees quickly, his mind and emotions running rampant. "Damned right, because I may have . . . fucked up a little. Maybe."

"Tony?' Now her voice is worried, and he rushes to calm her, which isn't easy, considering how much emotional turmoil is churning within him right now. He takes a deep breath and explains about the server sabotage and his conversation with Obie.

Pepper says nothing when he's finished, and Tony sighs. "Still there?"

"Yes," she assures him. "It's okay, Tony. Maybe he caught it, maybe he didn't, but I think we ought to go for the worst case scenario at the moment. What . . . what do you want me to do?"

Tony swallows hard in the face of this quiet loyalty. He knows he doesn't deserve it; doesn't deserve this beautiful, gentle woman.

But he's so damned glad she's here.

"Bring Yinsen," he gruffly requests. "The more we can get done before Stane gets back, the better. It . . . it may get dangerous, Pepper. You have to know that."

"It got dangerous the minute I walked in your front door," she replies, and he can't help but grin, because her tone is cheeky and sweet and absolutely right.

He waits in the hall, still at the end of the foyer, but Tony doesn't fret about it now; his mind is too full of other issues to brood on the claustrophobia at the moment. Tony paces, knowing it's the best way to burn off frenetic energy while he waits.

"Where are they?"

"Ten feet closer along the driveway than they were the last time you inquired, sir," Jarvis reports in his impeccably dry tones.

Tony chews his lip and refrains from the sarcastic reply. He spins and makes another pass along the edge of the foyer, thoughts streaming at the speed of light, and in his pre-occupation he misses the turn of the door handle.

Afternoon light streams in, outlining figures in the doorway and Tony turns, blinks.

The smaller slender one he knows, but the other –

Tony freezes, and the sound of footsteps gets louder, the light tap of a cane fills the foyer. He blinks as the shape grows, and the light touches the edges, giving a halo effect around the thin figure.

Light glitters off the round spectacles, and Tony blinks because of all the things he assumed about this moment, he hadn't fully accepted the truth.

Yinsen is . . . old.

But the rush of emotions surges up, wiping away all other concerns, and Tony trembles because this man has come back from the dead.

Tony takes a step forward, staring, and a few seconds later, feels the press of cool, lean hands on his cheeks. The wooden clatter of the cane on the marble echoes, but it's the words he hears that matter.

"Tony . . . forgive me."

He pulls the man into a fierce hug, feeling the warmth, the brittleness of Yinsen, who hugs back just as tightly. Tony clings, and for a moment the wave of wonder threatens to topple him.

Back from the dead.

Both of them.

"Damn it," he whispers joyfully, "Really _here_!"

"Oh yes," Yinsen nods, eyes wet behind his glasses. "Yes indeed. Tony, I've wondered for years how you were, and I am ashamed that never had the courage to find out."

Tony pulls back, looking into Yinsen's face searchingly. "What happened?"

They move into the living room; Pepper brings the cane and comes to sit with them as Yinsen speaks, covering Stane's past treachery in a few simple sentences. His expression is bleak as he looks at Tony.

"The man is ruthless," he finishes softly. "I have been watching Stark Industries for several years, and every new development brings more death and more blood. What your father started as a company dedicated to technical progress has been focused solely into a military weapons corporation."

Tony blinks. "That's not true; we make breakthroughs in medicine and engineering and biotechnology too. I get the reports every month—"

"—from Stane," Pepper breaks in, her expression carefully neutral. "I don't think we need to get into the ethics of Stark Industries right now. What we need is to figure out what to do next, Tony."

He nods, looking bleak. "Damn it. I should have figured if he was going to lie to me, he'd go whole hog. Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

Yinsen looks up, startled, as a voice comes down from the ceiling. Pepper pats his hand and smiles. "Jarvis is the system that runs the house. *Very* cool."

"Whatever happened to the plasma bolt plans?" Tony asks impatiently. "The improved re-breather? They were supposed to go to R and D for domestic use."

"Both are currently being tested in the Ground Force Assault Tactics lab instead, sir."

Tony quivers, his rage rising, but instead of yelling, he turns to Yinsen, eyes glittering. "I should be used to it by now," he growls. "The rebreather was going to be the breakthrough for undersea farming. The plasma bolt designs were supposed to be part of an energy conversion for grid stabilization. Not everything is weapons. He's taking _everything_ I do and . . ."

Yinsen reaches out and grabs Tony's hand; the gesture is confident and gentle. "We will stop him, Tony. Let this go."

Tony looks down, feels the strength in that grip and in a rush the anger dissolves, leaving behind a resolution. He reaches his other hand for Pepper, and laces his fingers with hers.

"Okay. Okay," Tony repeats with more confidence. "To stop Stane, I need to be able to go outside. To go outside, I need to bring the inside with me. And . . . I've done it."

"What?" Pepper asks, looking at him with concern. Yinsen merely waits for an explanation, but a small smile is playing at the edges of his mouth.

"I went outside. A little bit. In the Suit," Tony tells her carefully. "Today."

"Today? How? Where? Tony!" She babbles, fingers tightening on his to a painful degree. He grins.

"He did indeed, Doctor Potts," Jarvis confirms. "I have the footage archived."

"Patio," Tony grins. "Lou is my witness."

"Lou?" Yinsen asks, and in response, a large and inquisitive mass lumbers over to nudge his shin. Yinsen looks down and smiles. "Ah." He gently pets the cat, who begins to rumble in approval.

"Lou is not a credible witness," Pepper argues, but she's smiling, and there are tears in her eyes. "God, Tony!"

He brings her fingers to his lips and kisses them, then stands up. "Come on—we don't have a lot of time. This is going to be a very important week for us."


	17. Chapter 17

Pepper is reluctantly grateful to Stane for the arrangement that allows her to stay with Tony instead of going in to work. She makes a few calls to get food delivered, and returns to the lab, where Tony is in full lecture mode, gabbling on at full-speed while Yinsen sits and nods, his lap full of Lou.

"So I need someone to manually remove the Arc and let Jarvis calibrate where we need to put the plasma conduits through it so I can have it power the Suit as well. I don't have the dexterity, or . . . objectivity to tackle that part," She hears Tony say. "It's a two-doctor one-patient sort of job."

"How lucky for you that we all showed up, then," Yinsen murmurs, and Pepper sees that the mild tease makes Tony slow down and smile back for a moment.

"You never did let me feel sorry for myself very often," Tony replies quietly. "Thanks."

Yinsen gives an elegant shrug. "You have a gift that few people will ever have, Tony. Using it wisely is the best way of overcoming Obadiah Stane."

Tony nods and Pepper braces herself when he looks at her. "Okay, can we do this? We've got everything we need here except time."

Pepper nods, fighting down her fears. "Yes," she tells him quietly.

She and Yinsen prep, and an hour later, Pepper is holding the jewel that is Tony Stark's Arc reactor in her gloved hands. It's heavier than she imagined, and beautiful as it glows. Next to her, Yinsen nods. Pepper can't see his expression under his surgical mask, but she senses that he too, is in awe of the device.

Under them on the padded table, Tony grimaces. "Okay, um . . . can we . . . ?"

Pepper hands the arc to Yinsen, who carries it to the sterilized steel plate in the sterile Plexiglas box and gently sets it down. She works quickly to drop the temporary battery down into the biomesh hole in Tony's chest, letting the weighted end of the lead touch the plate deep inside. "Doing all right?"

"Yeah," he tells her. He looks slightly haggard, and Pepper wonders how much sleep he's getting, if any.

"Scanning and calibrations are complete," Jarvis announces. "Drilling will commence once the arc is bi-autoclaved."

Yinsen whistles softly, impressed. He turns to look at Tony, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "This is _quite _a major domo you have."

"Yeah, he even does windows," Tony quips back weakly. Pepper checks his vital signs and presses her lips together; he's holding up, but shock is starting to set in. She touches his forehead.

"I miss all the hair," she murmurs, to tease him.

Tony waggles his chin at her. "Keepin' the chin scruff, just for you."

Pepper smirks, amused that he's not willing to admit it looks good on him, even at this early stage. She hears the hiss of the autoclave at work behind her, and Yinsen, humming softly as he watches.

"So tell me, what happened with your daughter?" Tony asks. "Uh, Laila, right?"

Yinsen half-turns, his eyes bright. "You remember that? Oh my goodness. Well, neither her mother nor I could talk her out of it, so now I am a grandfather."

"Really?" Pepper watches Tony goggle over this revelation. She had an inkling, having seen the family photos back at the clinic, but it's fun to see Tony react. He stares, and Yinsen gives a little nod.

"Oh yes. Ali is seven, Alana is four and Michael is eighteen months as of last week. They are quite a handful at times."

Pepper hears quiet contentment in Yinsen's voice, and she can easily picture him playing with the children and reading to them in his gentle and patient way.

"Three?"

"Eight, actually— my son Emir married a very nice young lady with two children from her previous marriage and they've had three since then. Danielle, Joseph, Samra, Hassan and Hajur," Yinsen replies mildly.

"God I feel old," Tony mumbles, and Pepper hears a tiny ache in his voice despite his wry grin. Yinsen seems to hear it too; he turns to look at Tony and cocks his head.

"Nothing will make up for the time that has already passed, my friend. It's what we will do with the time ahead of us that matters now. You have many years more to go, and a legacy to reclaim."

She watches Tony nod.

"Sterilization and drilling are complete," Jarvis announces. "The arc is ready to be replaced."

"Thank you," Yinsen murmurs, and reaches inside the box, lifting the arc out reverently. "Now, Doctor Potts, if you would please unhook Mr. Stark from his temporary arrangement, I think we can replace this . . ."

Working in tandem, she and Yinsen move quickly to shift the arc into place again, setting it into Tony's chest and giving it a quarter turn to lock it into place. Pepper notes that the minute the arc is back, Tony's vital signs begin to rise, and his blood pressure normalizes.

"Okay, good to go," he mutters, and tries to sit up, but Yinsen shakes his head and gives Tony a stern look.

"You're going to lie there and rest—you've just had the stoma in your thorax opened and sealed again, Mr. Stark; you need to be monitored for any adverse reactions before you go off testing the plasma conduits."

Tony looks mulish, but Pepper presses her hand to his shoulder and gives him a patient look. "Tony, he's right and you know it. Just be patient and let us make sure everything's . . . normal."

"I'm not normal," Tony mumbles. "But since there are two of you, I suppose I'm overruled on this-"

"Yes," both she and Yinsen say at the same time, and at the duet, Tony grins.

Later, they eat dinner together: a quick stir-fry Pepper puts together for the three of them. Afterwards, Tony is restless, and Pepper knows he's in flux; the drugs are working their way out of his system, but the highs and crashes are still his cycle and will be for a while. She sees that Yinsen notices it too, and he encourages Tony to burn off energy on the treadmill.

"If anything hurts, stop, but other than that," Yinsen tells him, "keep going until you're ready to do something else."

Tony shrugs and settles into a loping run; after a quick reassuring phone call to his family, Yinsen settles onto one of the nearby lounge chairs ostensibly to monitor, but he naps, Lou curling up nearby for soporific support.

Pepper confers with Jarvis. The AI provides her with detailed medical test results going back fifteen years, and the unlocked information about the arc, as well as Tony's plans to tap into it to power the Suit. The idea is ingenious, and Pepper grudgingly agrees that as a power source, the arc is perfect both for keeping Tony alive and energizing the Suit.

"Show me the footage," she asks Jarvis, and he does. Pepper tears up watching Tony tentatively step through the door of his balcony, and giggles as he hollers at the distant boat. The pride at his accomplishment buoys her up, and for the first time, Pepper feels that there truly is a chance that he—they—might succeed.

Tony tires out and goes for a shower; it's past sunset now, and time for Yinsen to head back to his family. Pepper drives him down to the gate, where another car is waiting; his wife and eldest son are there, looking anxious and then relieved when Yinsen and Pepper step through the gates of the estate.

"I doubt Tony will develop any complications," Yinsen assures Pepper, "Not after all this time. Still, he should be monitored, yes?"

"I'll keep an eye on him," Pepper nods, feeling a blush rise under the man's kind scrutiny. "Jarvis set up a real-time feed for you on Tony's vitals, and you've got a secured and private speed dial to us as well. For now, though—we never saw each other."

Yinsen nods solemnly, and takes Pepper's hands, looking into her eyes with worry. "Of course not. In the meantime, be very careful my dear."

Pepper watches the car drive off, a lone vehicle on the empty length of Pacific Coast Highway, and the tiny anxiety within her flares up again. She steps back through the gate and drives back up to the mansion, trying to think of soothing things, but it's difficult. Lou seems to sense her mood and wanders over to circle her ankles, so she picks him up, grunting a little with the effort.

"Geez, buddy, I think we need to put you on a diet," Pepper chuffs, lugging him with her to the living room. Lou pretends not to hear her. Pepper drops onto the sofa, finally relaxing, and a moment later the soft piano version of Brubeck's _Take Five_ fills the room.

Eyes closed, she listens to Tony play, marveling at his skill, which isn't bad. Only a few missed notes, and the slow sweetness of the tune makes it clear that he's played it often. Pepper waits until the music comes to an end, and then looks over at the piano. Tony is staring down at the keys, as if trying to decide what to play next.

"That was nice," she tells him, and he looks up to smile briefly at her.

"Thanks. You may be wondering why I'm over here and not say, over there," Tony murmurs, looking away.

Pepper feels a flare of heat in her stomach. "Because it's easier to play, over there?"

"There's that, yeah," Tony sighs softly. "And the other reason of course."

Pepper's breath catches in her throat, and the flare sends long curls of desire twining along the base of her spine. It's a giddy dangerous feeling, like hot syrup.

She needs to go home. Now.

Instead, Pepper gets to her feet and walks over to Tony, gently settling onto the dark lacquered bench, her hip pressing against his. She feels his warmth radiating, their personal space meshing sweetly and comfortably now.

Pepper breathes in the scent of his skin, a blend of male pheromones, sandalwood soap tinged with metal. It's uniquely Tony, and seductive as hell; she lets herself savor it.

'"Play something for me," she requests in a low voice.

Tony drops his hands on the keyboard. They're big hands, engineer's hands with strong fingers and heavy knuckles, but he doesn't move them.

"I can't," Tony confesses. "Not when you're this close to me and all I can think about is the last time you were this close to me."

For a long moment neither one of them say anything, nor move. They stare at each other.

"I should go," Pepper says.

"I don't want you to go," Tony tells her, fingertips still resting on the keyboard. "I really don't. I want you to stay. I want you to _want_ to stay but I can't make you, so all I can do is—"

Shutting down his babbling is easy. Pepper brushes her mouth over his, and the stream of words die off. Tony freezes, holding still as she nuzzles his lips again, a soft, sweet invitation.

Tony gives a soft little groan and kisses her. His mouth is hot, and Pepper realizes that she's ready, more than ready _for _more, in fact. She takes his lower lip into her mouth and nips it gently, making it very clear that the kissing doesn't have to be polite now.

To his credit, Tony Stark takes the hint very well. They kiss again, in a silky tangle of tongues and heat, giving in to the moment. Pepper basks in the taste of the man; his flavors and textures and scent erasing the conscious passage of time as they slip into each other's arms and keep kissing.

Eventually they pull apart, breathing roughly, and Pepper knows this is _her _moment in the doorway. Just as Tony stood and made a choice, she must as well—go back, stand still, or go forward.

Only one is about living, and just as Tony chose, she does too, taking his hand and rising from the piano bench.

The scent of the ocean lingers in the Master bedroom, but Pepper is only dimly aware of it as she takes Tony into her arms and they tumble onto the bed, rolling together across the bedspread. More kissing, and little whispers of confession and reassurance and desire mumbled against skin and into ears. Fingers stroke and slip under clothing, only to be followed by kisses, and when Pepper pulls the condom out of her pocket, she smiles at Tony's sigh of relief.

"Yes. Yes," he groans, and adds, "thank you."

Pepper blinks, lost in the sweetness of this man. No one has ever appreciated her, challenged her or needed her the way Tony does, and that even though they've only known each other a short time chronologically, being with him has a sense of rightness to it.

They shift; she wraps her long thighs around his bare hips and presses her heels against the backs of his thighs. He plunges into her, his deep and pleasured groan muffled against her shoulder.

It is fierce and slow and so so good; Pepper clings to Tony, wrapping him in her arms, heat and desire twisting tightly with every stroke until the bliss sears through her body, making her light-headed, lost in the pleasure of him filling her.

The weight of him feels good, and even the glow of the arc across her damp bare skin is somehow sweet. A night light of sorts, blue and soft in the darkness of the room. She smells like him now, and Pepper likes that.

They doze, still in each other's arms.

Muzzily Pepper wakens to a voice calling her name. She looks up, and across the room a lamp goes on, lighting everything with a golden glow. Overhead, Jarvis speaks again, his voice tinged with urgency.

"Mr. Stark, Doctor Potts, I apologize for intruding, but I have urgent information that cannot wait," the AI tells them, and the enormous flat screen television on the wall flares to life.

Tony mumbles and shifts, yawning, his hair flyaway but his smile warm and sweet. "Okay Jarvis, what?"

"Two situations," comes the reply. On the screen, KCAL 9 is showing the smoky glow of a fire, a huge conflagration that lights up the neighborhood, and the crawl-by feed underneath lists one fatality even as a reporter says the same thing into a microphone for the camera.

Pepper blinks and sits up, stunned.

They watch for a second, and then she murmurs in a disbelieving tone, "Tony—that's my townhouse."

"What?" He stares alongside her. Jarvis speaks, his voice low and rapid.

"The residence in question _is_ that of Doctor Potts. Preliminary reports indicate that the cause of the blaze is undetermined at this time, and that one body has been found at the scene, sir. However, that is not the only situation that has occurred in the last hour. I also have _this _to report-"

A smaller picture opens on the right hand corner of the screen; a shot of the main gates to the estate. Two huge men in dark suits are looping lengths of heavy chain around the gates and securing them shut with industrial padlocks that glint in the glare of their flashlights.


	18. Chapter 18

In one moment, a pulse of time and clarity, it all clicks, and every doubt or misgiving Tony has ever had about Obadiah fuses into a core of fury. He rises off the bed, reaching for his discarded sweatpants and pulling them on in quick tugs. Pepper is still on the mattress, clearly too stunned to move. Tony circles around, using his body to block her view of the screen. He reaches for her hand, gripping her cool one firmly.

"Now," he tells her, and something in his voice makes her blink and scramble forward, still clutching the sheet to cover herself.

"Tony, my house . . ." she repeats, and he leans down, cupping her cheek with his other hand and forcing her to make eye contact.

"I know. We need to move fast. Come on—"

He lets her dress, and while she does so, Tony questions Jarvis. "Where's Stane right now?"

"He is currently in Washington DC at the Hilton, sir. I have access to the hotel's security cameras and have him under surveillance."

"Good," Tony replies. "Keep an eye on him. I want to know who he calls and what he says. Also, any information that comes up about the fire, let me know immediately. What are the stats on the locks out there on the front gates?"

"Yes, sir. There are two Brandt four thousands, with titanium reinforced hinges. The chains are industrial grade steel."

"Can we cut the chain?" Tony mutters, thinking of all the tools currently in the workshop. He's got bolt cutters of course, but maybe not for this particular size.

"Yes; however, the agents who have secured the gate are currently still there," Jarvis points out.

Tony considers the issue for a moment, then smiles. Pepper comes up behind him, pale and quiet; he takes her hand. "All right, I have a plan. Are you in?"

She blinks, and he feels a rush of concern so strong that almost threatens to derail matters, but to her credit, Pepper merely bites her lip and nods. There's a determination in her eyes that cheers Tony, and he brings her hand up to his lips again, kissing it lightly. "All right. Come with me."

They head to the workshop, and once there, Tony calls for Dummy and Butterfingers as he rummages through one of the heavy-duty cabinets. "Okay boys, got a job for you. Dummy—you like to spray, so you get to handle that part of the job. Here—point it _away_ from me. I've got a . . . where is it again, okay, I think this is it—" Tony pulls out a chrome tube with a button on the end and hands it to Butterfingers, "Here. Jarvis, download the directions for the sonic lock pick to Butterfingers. Pepper, you're going to need to go."

"W-what?" she still seems slightly dazed, and Tony pulls her into a quick hug, speaking softly into her ear.

"The police will be looking for you, and if you're with them, Obie can't get to you. They're going to want to question you, and I'll have some SI lawyers there just in case, but if you stay here, you'll be trapped. Anyone asks, _Yinsen_ is my doctor of record okay? Oh, and I love you, by the way."

_That _seems to shake her out of her shock and she arches an eyebrow at him, her look one of exasperated sweetness. "Maybe we should hold off on the personal discussions until all this . . . is dealt with first."

"Good plan," Tony agrees, "but I'm serious. You don't have to say it back or anything. I just wanted you to know. Just in case. So—Call Rhodes and have him come out here for you, okay?"

"Tony!" Pepper chuffs, "It's two in the morning and there are huge LOCKS on your front gates, not to mention guards!"

"Not a problem," Tony tells her, feeling an odd power through his entire body. He is alive; charged, primed, and for the first time in a long time, unafraid.

Pepper pulls back to look at him. "Are you going to do something stupid? Please don't do anything stupid Tony. Stane is . . ."

"Stane," Tony replies in a hard voice, "needs to be stopped. Call Rhodes, or I'll have Jarvis do it for you."

Pepper seems to see the sense of that and does what Tony asks, keeping an eye on him as he turns to the two 'bots and speaks to them in a low voice.

"Okay guys, we're on the three yard line and it's the last down. We need to do this fast and quiet. I want you both on stealth mode. Dummy, you get the two guards. Coat them completely. Butterfingers, hit the locks and get them open. Once they are-"

The last directions make Pepper blink, but she says nothing and finishes her call.

Tony isn't sure if he likes Rhodes or not; on one hand he's clearly concerned about Pepper and that's good. On the _other_ hand he's handsome, self-confident and able to walk around outside, all of which Tony internally seethes about for a long solid moment.

Then he pushes that aside and holds out his hand. "Colonel."

Cautiously Rhodes shakes his hand. Good grip, not a bone-crusher but strong. "Mr. Stark. So what the _hell_ is going on?"

Tony takes in a deep breath and looks up. "Jarvis, five sentence recap for the colonel here."

"Delighted to, sir. Mr. Stark has been held prisoner in his home by Mr. Stane for the last twenty years. Thanks to the interventions of Doctors Potts and Yinsen, Mr. Stark has been overcoming his agoraphobia and chemical dependencies and his now aware of Mr. Stane's machinations. He intends to confront Mr. Stane and reclaim his position as the rightful CEO of Stark Industries. He would appreciate your help in keeping Doctor Potts safe."

There is a pause, and finally Rhodes speaks up. "That's only four sentences."

"Mr. Stane shall be defeated, allowing us all to live happily ever after, the end." Jarvis responds.

Tony splutters and even Pepper snorts a giggle. Rhodes looks lost and then grins, crossing his arms as he looks up.

"You've got one sarcastic house, Mr. Stark."

"Call me Tony," Tony tells him. "Yeah. But the plan's sound. I want to keep Pepper safe; that's primary. I'll deal with Stane."

"No offence, man, but two months ago you were pulling a Howard Hughes," Rhodes points out. "Even if you _do_ manage to take on Stane, he's got all the publicity and media cred on his side."

"Yeah, I was thinking about that," Tony admits, "So I need a couple of sane and civic people to note that I'm not a nutjob. I think Pepper's good for one; how about you?"

Rhodes' skeptical stare makes it clear that the jury is still out, but as Tony watches, he gradually smirks and gives a sigh. "What the hell. Okay, you're in luck because I _do_ happen to know something about PR. Do you have footage of your isolation here, documentation about what Stane's been doing to you all this time?"

Tony winces. "Yeah, although it's not like he had me in chains or anything."

"He did!" Pepper snaps, and both men turn to stare at her. She looks furious, and glares at Tony. "God! Obadiah Stane is responsible for the murder of your parents, the hostile takeover of your company, your chemical dependency and emotional seclusion! The man has systematically stolen_ everything_ that should be yours and used it for his own ends! Don't think that because you haven't been beaten or physically abused that his treatment is any less horrific!"

She stalks towards him, furious now, and Tony recognizes the hysteria in Pepper's expression, so he grips her upper arms, giving her a little shake. "Pepper, don't lose it. We'll get him, I promise. I swear to you we WILL."

She begins to cry, and her words chill him. "Fire, Tony! He used _fire._ He read my file and knew _exactly_ what would . . . would . . ."

"Shit," Rhodes mutters, and comes closer, but Tony pulls Pepper into his arms and squeezes her tightly.

"Rhodey's going to take you to safety, sweetheart, okay? You need to be around lots of people so Obie can't make a move. I need you to _be _safe."

Tony feels Pepper slowly relax, and the odd, sweet realization that this time _he's_ the one to give support and comfort rekindles the heat in his belly. Lightly he kisses her forehead then turns to look at the colonel.

"Rhodey?" the man mutters, but gives a shrug and slips an arm around Pepper. "He's right—we have to go, Pep, and go NOW."

"All right," Pepper sighs, wiping her face with the heel of one hand, "but I don't want to go and leave you here all alone, Tony."

"I . . . can handle being alone," he tells her with a wry twist of a smile, "and in any case, we're on lockdown. I've got Jarvis and the 'bots and my secret weapon, so I'll be okay for now. Go, and don't stop for anything or anybody, got it?"

Rhodes nods grimly, hesitates, and reaches to shake Tony's hand one more time. Tony does, suddenly appreciating the show of faith this man is making on his behalf. He watches them hustle out of the foyer and monitors them via Jarvis' projections until the Colonel's Mustang is out beyond the gates. They slide closed with a clang, and then Tony speaks up.

"Okay guys, lock 'em up."

On the screen in infrared, Dummy and Butterfingers roll forward and slip the chains back around the gates, securing them once more with the Brandt four thousand locks. Once done, they turn and each 'bot scoops up an unconscious body, carrying them back up the long driveway to the mansion.

Some digging in pockets reveals interesting information, and Tony is prepared when Ed Dyanter and Randall Gillman regain consciousness. The spray is harmless; a compound developed by Stark Industries for crowd control; nevertheless it can leave a recipient with a strong thirst, and Tony smiles as the two men wake groggily and focus on the water bottles on the table.

"Hi," Tony tells them without preamble. "I bet you'd like a drink."

Neither man speaks. They're tied up to the fancy equipment in the gym, secured with plastic cuffs and looking wary and miserable.

Tony pulls up a lifting bench, straddles it and gives a sigh. "Okay, let me explain a few things. I'm not insane, no matter what Obie might have told you. I know both of you work for a private security firm that Obie uses for bodyguards, and that he didn't call you from his cell phone. You were told to lock up the gates, stand guard, and from the hardware you were carrying . . ." Tony points a chin at the table where the bottles are; there are a pair of Glocks and the wallets on it as well, ". . . you were to act as deterrents to anyone trying to come in. You've _also_ got kerosene on your shoes and ash along your trousers, so it smells like you probably stopped over at Doctor Potts' house too."

Tony waits, putting on a mock-smile at his recital, hoping to hide his fury. The man on the left—Randall, the burly African-American—grunts. "You can't hold us, man. I've got a wife and family—"

Tony makes a buzzer sound. "Nope. Checked your wallet and not a single photo. No school pictures, no baby snaps, no Olan Mills specials. You are Randall Gillman, security agent for Omni One. And to be completely honest, I don't think your driver's license photo is your most flattering. I _can_ hold you, pal; you're a trespasser on private property and nobody's looking for you."

"Jesus, you _are _fuckin' nuts," the other man, Ed Dyanter groans. "We didn't DO anything to you—we're just following-"

"—orders, yeah, I've heard that before," Tony growls. "So I've got two intruders nicely restrained here and I'm not in a huge rush to call the police. And even if Stane shows up, he'll see those gates locked up nice and tight, so let's face it-you two are not his concern anymore."

Both men look increasingly uneasy. Tony reaches over to fondle one of the water bottles. "You're _my_ concern now."

The two men look at each other for a moment, and then Ed tugs hard at one of his wrist restraints, making no headway. Tony shoots him a sorrowful look. "There are easier ways to get freed."

"We're not talking to you!" Randall announces, and licks his lips.

"That's okay," Tony sighs and rises. "It's not exactly like I invited you here in the first place. I'm outta here. Got things to do."

"Hey, wait! You can't just _leave_ us!" Ed whines. Tony makes it to the gym door and looks back.

"Um . . . yes I can," he points out, and does. As he trots towards the living room, Tony speaks softly to Jarvis. "Monitor them; give me heads up on anything pertinent. Oh, and send Dummy in and have him vacuum—that ought to freak them out a bit. Any word on Pepper or Obie?"

"Yes sir. Doctor Potts and Colonel Rhodes have arrived at the Malibu police department and are currently in protective custody. The lawyer you requested as been sent as well. Mr. Stane is now over airspace in Kansas and is due to arrive at the Stark Industries jet pad in three hours."

"Who has Obie been calling?" Tony asks. Behind him comes a low humming sound, and a few shrieks.

"Mr. Stane has called Research and Development, Human Resources and Omni One, sir. Shall I play the recordings for you?"

"Yes," Tony responds, heading down to the workshop.

The conversations are short and brisk; very Obie, Tony notes. R and D are to meet him at the jet pad and bring the contents of safe number three; Human Resources is to fire Pepper Potts immediately, and Omni One needs to mobilize a team on standby.

A man of action, Tony thinks bitterly, and regrets more than ever his slip-up about the server. But _he_ knows a few things too, and one of them is that this showdown is going to be on his home turf.


	19. Chapter 19

Pepper is holding herself together, but she knows it's more by force of will over real control. The station is bright and modern; Rhodey is still with her, out there talking to someone, but the lack of sleep and stress are starting to get to her, and she dozes for a moment in her chair, waiting for the next step.

Through the glass outside the doors of the room is a heavyset white-haired man in a polo shirt and Dockers; her lawyer, sent by Stark Industries on an Email from Tony Stark himself. He's good at hiding his reaction to being called away from his yacht, but Pepper senses he's also intrigued by this new situation, and she wants to talk to him as soon as possible, preferably before she has to answer any official questions. Luckily Pepper still has her cell phone, and she texts Jarvis, who responds quickly.

By the time he enters and introduces himself—"Lloyd Schmitt, long-time attorney for Howard, now on retainer for Tony and Stark Industries"- Pepper feels more confident, and shakes his hand, which is big and slightly callused. "Good morning."

"Morning. So—you're Mr. Stark's . . . doctor?"

"I . . . was never officially listed as such," Pepper says carefully, remembering Tony's words. "Although I provided care at the directive of Mr. Stane."

"Ah," Schmitt nods. "Okay, I'll need the particulars of that."

"I have it here," Pepper replies, and hands her cell phone to him. Schmitt squints, scanning the document on the screen, murmuring to himself for a moment.

"Okay, looks good, but a coupla printouts would be nice as soon as we can get 'em. So. Tony Stark. Haven't seen him in years and now he's got me off my boat and here to defend you. How _is_ the kid?"

Pepper blinks, trying to think of where to start and how to relay all the information without overwhelming the man. She looks up and around the interrogation room for a moment, and Schmitt seems to understand; he gives her a smile as he pulls out one of the utilitarian chairs and sits down next to her, tugging out a small leather bound notebook. "Take your time. You've got that right, Doctor Potts."

She sighs with relief, and begins.

Carefully Pepper lays out Stane's initial call and her first visit to Tony; she talks about the visitation arrangement, and the subsequent trips to see Tony. When she gets to the lab results, Schmitt looks alert, and very, very concerned, but he doesn't interrupt her, and Pepper is grateful for that. Just getting the whole story off her chest is making her feel better sentence by sentence, and although she skirts around the personal side of being with Tony, she can tell that Schmitt probably understands that too.

By the time she's done, Pepper is surprised to see that it's after dawn; around them at the station, the sounds of the shift change fill the momentary pause in conversation. Schmitt leans back in his chair, closes his notebook, and runs a hand over his bristly chin, lost in thought. Pepper rubs her eyes.

"That's . . ." he mutters, "one _hell _of a story, Ms. Potts."

"Call me Pepper," she replies. "And yes, I know. But I'm not making it up."

"Call me Lloyd. And no, I don't think you are. For one thing, it fills in a lotta blanks about Tony Stark, and for another, it's so damned outrageous it can't be anything _but_ the truth," he rumbles back at her with a quick smile. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. Right now the police want to question you about your house fire. You'll answer their questions, and I'll be with you to make sure that any and all questions relate to that topic _only_."

Pepper nods tiredly. "Okay. The body—do they know . . . ?"

"I can find out," Lloyd assures her. "The tricky part is establishing an alibi for you, since Stark's not likely to come down to the station and testify on your behalf. We've got the Colonel, but his account starts at around midnight, and the fire was at roughly ten thirty or eleven."

"There's Doctor Yinsen," Pepper murmurs softly. "He was there from roughly before noon to around ten."

"Good," Lloyd nods, "but will he swear to it? From what you've told me, the man's been laying low for almost as long as Tony."

"I think he will," Pepper replies. "And his family picked him up at the gate; they saw me too."

"Okay then," Lloyd shoots back. He drops a heavy hand on his notebook. "Let's talk to the officers and get you out of here, all right? Do you have somewhere to go when we're through?"

Stricken, Pepper looks up. She hasn't thought about that, and the hard shock of realizing all her worldly possessions are now probably gone hits her like a fist to the gut.

Lloyd sighs. "I'm sorry; I should have been more tactful."

"No," Pepper gulps, "It's all right, and believe me, I'm grateful you're here. Um, I may be able to stay with Colonel Rhodes . . ."

"Or me and my wife," Lloyd offers quietly. Pepper looks up, startled, and the gruff attorney gives a shrug. "Mitzy was good friends with Maria Stark; she'd love the company."

"I . . . thank you for the offer," Pepper manages softly, stunned.

Lloyd nods, business-like again. "Okay, we'll work things out afterwards. Let's go do our civic duty here."

Pepper opens her eyes to the sound of waves, and for one quick moment thinks she's back at Tony's place, but that vanishes as she looks up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The gentle rocking reminds her that she's onboard the _Delta Wave_ as a guest of Mitzy and Lloyd Schmitt. Fumbling quickly, Pepper checks her pocket, looking at the time on her cell phone.

It's just after three in the afternoon, and guilt washes over her. Pepper hits the speed dial for Tony, tension building as the number rings a few times. Finally—"Hey Pepper!"

Tony sounds utterly calm and relaxed. Pepper blinks. "Tony?"

"Sleep okay? Lloyd says you were dead to the world once they let you have the guest cabin."

"Uh, yeah. Tony, what's going on?" Pepper demands, feeling her uneasiness grow. She sits up and rubs her forehead, thinking briefly of a hot shower, but dismisses it. "Where's Stane?"

"Incommunicado, according to Jarvis," Tony replies, and some of the strain comes through his voice. "Seems my AI has been locked out of Obie's phone for the time being, but I'm still getting feeds from the monitors at SI, and it looks like Obie's holing up at work for the time being. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm—" Pepper begins automatically, and then the last day catches up with her, and she begins to shake. Carefully she pulls the blanket around her and fights the sobs that want to rise up in her throat. "I'm . . . okay. The police have cleared me for the time being, but I'm in Mr. Schmitt's custody for right now."

"That's good," Tony murmurs. "Lloyd's a good guy. I've been Emailing him and we've got web cameras, so we've been talking a bit. Man, he's gotten grey."

"Time marches on, Mr. Stark," Pepper replies, with a ghost of a smile.

"Yeah. Listen Pepper—" She hears him begin, his tone intimate and sincere. Pepper isn't sure she can take another declaration of love, so she sniffs and interrupts him.

"I told Lloyd everything," Pepper tells Tony. "Everything but . . . us."

"Yeah, I got that," Tony assures her. "Although I think he's put two and two together—not that I care, frankly. All I'm concerned about it making sure you're safe from Obie and Lloyd promised me he was on it."

"Tony-"

A strange noise comes over the line; gruffly Tony mutters, "God I love you, Pep. Gotta go—"

The line goes dead, and no amount of re-dialing will go through. Pepper stares at her cell phone for a moment, then before she can dial _another_ number, there's a knock at the cabin door.

"Y-yes?"

"Pepper?" the voice is feminine and soothing; Mitzy Schmitt.

Pepper calls for her to come in and she does, a lean and tanned woman with long white hair tied back neatly. She's holding out a stack of clothing, and seeing it, Pepper feels tears prickle in her eyes at the simple generosity.

"I can't—" she begins, but Mitzy smiles kindly.

"Oh you have to, sweetie. These are some of Hallie's old things—I'm pretty sure they'll fit ya—and if you're hungry, I've got a big old salad and some leftover chicken in the galley. Have yourself a good long shower and come on up when you're ready, hear?" Mitzy drawls in her soft Texan accent.

Pepper bites her lip and nods. Mitzy's smile widens as she speaks again. "Lloyd's been chattin' with Tony—Lord what a good-lookin' young man he is. Got Maria's eyes he does. Gave me a pang jest to look at him."

Pepper laughs, and satisfied, Mitzy withdraws, leaving her to clean up.

The main interior deck of the _Delta Wave_ is gorgeous, all polished teak and cheerful daisy wallpaper. Pepper climbs the ladder and finds Lloyd at the table, laptop open while Mitzy is busy slicing up cantaloupe in the galley nook; both of them glance up at her and smile, then turn back to their own chores. Pepper takes one of the seats at the table.

"Thank you so much for _everything_," Pepper begins, but Lloyd merely grunts and moves to sign off of the computer.

He gives a sigh. "They've identified the body at your condo as David Hoffmeyer—know him?"

Pepper blinks, startled. "Uh, he was my neighbor. We used to borrow his barbeque grill once in a while . . . oh God. He's dead!"

Lloyd nods gravely. "The autopsy isn't done yet, but I have some inside information that he had two bullets in him, and the police think he was killed by whoever started the fire. Probably surprised them or caught them in the act. I'm sorry about that."

"Me too," Pepper whispers, and the cabin is silent for a moment before Lloyd continues.

"You've been getting forwarded calls from an agent Coulson—I told him you'd call him back at some point just to assure him you're still alive. Hope that was okay."

Pepper nods—the thought of talking to Phil right now fills her with apprehension, but she owes him the consideration. "Do they know who set the fire?"

"Damnedest thing," Lloyd drawls, almost in imitation of his wife. "Seems the Highway Patrol just picked up a pair of handcuffed men outside the gates of the Stark mansion not more than an hour ago. Bagged in sterile plastic from the neck down, with a cell phone taped to the bungee cords around the bags. Cops brought them in and called the cell—I bet you can guess who was on the other end."

Pepper laughs. It's so damned audacious and yet so . . . practical. "Tony—"

"In a nutshell. He gave them the rundown on the men, and of course the cops wanted to go to the mansion and talk to him, but Tony's insisting on a warrant first."

"I can't think of who gave him _that_ advice," Mitzy sniffed, bringing over the cantaloupe.

"Hey, the man's impaired and unconnected to the crime; he has a right to make them jump through the hoops," Lloyd harrumphed.

"Impaired?" Pepper echoes, reaching for a slice of cold melon. It's delicious, and she suddenly realizes how hungry she is.

"Agoraphobia is a recognized psychiatric condition, and although he hasn't had any formal assessment, the general evaluations of his previous doctors from twenty years ago along with input from you and Doctor Yinsen make it clear he's functionally impaired," Lloyd murmurs firmly. "Not going to give an inch on that, okay?"

"It's good advice," comes Pepper's agreement. The sudden hum of a helicopter makes them all look up; Lloyd scowls.

"Press. Surprised it took them this long. Listen, you go make your call to that Agent, and Mitzy and I will handle those yahoos."

Pepper slips back down to the guest cabin and pulls out her phone. It's only as it's ringing that she remembers the time zone difference and bites her lip, but on the second ring Phil answers.

"Pepper?"

"Yes it's me," she assures him, a sharp pang going through her at the concern in his voice.

"Thank God! I saw the story about the fire, and nobody's been able to tell me where or how you are," he replies tersely. "Are you okay? Do you want me to come out?"

"I'm . . . okay," Pepper replies. "It was David they found. In the house. Right now I'm not too sure of all the details, but I wasn't there at the time. It looks like he saw something suspicious and got . . ."

"Killed," Phil finishes heavily. "Pepper, you need to come clean with me—what the _hell _are you involved in?"

"Phil . . . I can't say—not just yet," Pepper shoots back. "But you might want to talk to Jim Rhodes. Right now I'm safe, and I'll . . . I'll be okay."

"Pepper . . ." His voice holds a world of worry, and for a moment she squeezes her eyes closed, because that concern is so damned sweet and so very, very Phil Coulson. But there's another warmth deep in her stomach—a heat that reminds her that someone _else _has her loyalty and love now.

"You're a good guy. And Lou's okay too."

A laugh comes over the receiver. "Geez! I hadn't even _thought_ about the fuzzy bowling ball. Okay. You're _sure _you're okay? Because I could hop a plane and be there in a few hours."

"I'm good," Pepper tells Phil once again, feeling glad and sad at the same time. She hangs up, and as Pepper moves to the ladder, climbing up again to the main deck.

Neither Mitzy nor Lloyd are there, and Pepper looks around, spotting them outside, standing at the rail.

They're not looking out towards the water, though. They're looking up towards the cliffs north of the marina.

Where the mansion is.


	20. Chapter 20

Tony has been busy, and he's grateful for the sleep he managed to get before Jarvis brought them the news about Pepper's house, because now every minute is a gift and he intends to use them as best he can.

By dawn, the two agents have stopped yelling, and Dummy is sulking over on the far side of the gym. Tony goes over and squats down next to his creation, speaking softly. "Hey . . . who cares what they think, right? They're _bad _guys; they'll say anything, and you're going to have the last laugh anyway, because I'm going to let you drag them back down to the main gate. Would you like that?"

Dummy nods ever so slightly, perking up with a whirr of gears. Tony rises and moves over to the fearful Ed and Randall. He whistles for Dummy, who rolls over.

"Spray time," he tells the 'bot, who joyfully douses the two Omni One agents once again with the sleep spray.

Once the two are bagged, taped and ready to roll, Tony dumps them into a wagon and lets Dummy and Butterfingers roll them to the gates. Once again the locks are undone and the bodies unceremoniously dumped outside on the asphalt. Tony watches from the monitor, pleased to see the gates relocked and the 'bots returning.

He makes his way down to the workshop, and sits on the stool, looking towards the stand where the Suit is, eyeing it thoughtfully before he speaks up. "Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"Are the repulsors ready?"

"They are indeed sir, although a few field tests would be prudent," comes the reply. "Is that next on the agenda?"

"Yep," Tony murmurs, and gets up. After three steps, he looks up towards the ceiling. "How's Pepper?"

"Doctor Potts is still at the Malibu Police Station, however, Mr. Schmitt and Colonel Rhodes are with her," Jarvis replies serenely. "No charges are being filed, and Doctor Potts is due to be released shortly."

"Good," Tony murmurs, thinking hard. "Lloyd will keep an eye on her."

"Yes sir. Mr. Stane is attempting to again access to my working systems," Jarvis tells Tony. "What are your instructions?"

"Since he was so adamant about locking me in on my own estate, what say we return the favor and take away his access," Tony growls. "_ALL_ his access. And while we're at it, I think it's also time to release Obie from his duties and responsibilities to Stark Industries—what do you think?"

"I think you are displaying prudent judgment, sir," Jarvis tells him. "Implementing lockout now; you will have to make contact with HR, however, to proceed with the latter part of your plan. They will open at seven o'clock."

"That's too long," Tony grumbles. "Who's the head of HR—Moon, isn't it? Rochelle Moon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Call her for me—speaker phone please."

"Very well," Jarvis murmurs dubiously, and the sound of dialing fills the workshop, followed by a sleepy and suspicious voice.

"Hello? I think you may have the wrong number-"

"I don't think I do, Ms. Moon. This is Tony Stark."

"Yeah _right!"_ comes the cynical snort. "Harold, if this is you, knock it off! I have to get up in two hours and this isn't funny!"

"Ms. Moon, I'm not Harold, whoever that is," Tony tells her patiently. "I'm sorry for getting you up early, but this is serious. Now I know you only hear me once a year when I send in my annual message, but I assure you it's really me. I may not come into the offices, but I know who you are, along with Denise, Clair and Cathy, okay? I keep up-to-date on the day to day workings of SI, and much as I'd love chat, there isn't time. I need you to get working on a-"

The disconnected dial tone fills the workshop and Tony swears. "Fine—dial it again, Jarvis. Lock the line open so she can't hang up this time."

The number beeps out again.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Moon. Okay, let's try this again-I AM Tony Stark, and I NEED you to help me!"

The suspicious pause goes on for a long couple of seconds, and then the voice comes back slowly. "Oh suuuuure—look, whoever you are, I am going to call the police and have you reported as a damned _stalker_ if you keep this up!"

"You can try," Tony tells her, fighting to stay patient, "but since you can't break this connection, it's going to be tough. Look, your name is Rochelle Moon, and you came onboard at SI back when my dad first broke ground on the offices. You're African-American, you used to wear these really big hoop earrings, and my dad used to say that you made the best potato salad for the company picnics because you used red onions and Tabasco sauce in it. The last time I saw you in person was two days before my folks died when I fixed that Ricoh TP3220 copier for you."

There's a sharp intake of breath; a gratifying sound that makes Tony grin when he hears it. Then—

"Oh my GAWD. You . . . you really_ are_ Tony Stark!"

"Yes," he tells her simply, hearing sounds over the connection that tell him that Rochelle Moon is struggling to sit up and talk at the same time.

"Mr. Stark I am SO sorry! I just . . . well hell-nobody's heard from you in ages, and Harold has this really half-assed sense of humor, and-"

"I know. I've been . . . ill," he tells her gently, "I've been out of touch for a really long time, but I'm back. Things need to be dealt with; things need to change, do you understand?"

"Sort of," comes Rochelle Moon's grumble. "Dear Lord! Tony Stark! How can I help you, Mr. Stark?"

Tony tells her.

This time the intake of breath is sharp and quick. "Oh shit."

"I know," Tony agrees. "It's sort of a mind-blower, but he's been taking MY company in a few directions that I don't agree with, Ms. Moon, and on top of that, he's guilty of several crimes. I want him out, and I want it on the record ASAP. Can you do it?"

"Mr. Stark, you'll need the board to vote on it," Rochelle babbles. "I can start the paperwork and rescind his privileges, but actually_ firing _him is above my capacities, sir."

"I know—I'm going to convene the board via teleconference in about two hours, so if you've got the paperwork ready, we can get this thing done. We're both going to be busy, so I'll let you go. And Rochelle—thank you."

"You're . . . you're welcome, Mr. Stark," comes her soft reply. "And welcome back. A lot of us have missed you."

"Thanks." Tony smiles as the connection finally ends, giving himself a moment to savor the kindness in the woman's tone before clearing his throat. "Okay, Teleconference in two hours, give or take unforeseen circumstances. Can you set it up, Jarvis?"

"I will do my best to clear everyone's agendas and secure a quorum," Jarvis assures him. "What shall you be doing, sir?"

Tony smiles grimly. "Skeet shooting on the balcony."

oo00oo00oo00oo

The faces around the table look at him through the monitor, and inside, Tony feels like running away. He's watched television over the years—a lot of it—but this is different. These people can actually _see_ him, and he fights the throb of anxiety pulsing through his stomach.

Tony reminds himself of who the hell he _is _and that helps a little. He clears his throat and pastes on a quick smile. "Good morning. Thank you for being available on such short notice."

"Jesus, it really IS you!" a short balding man on the left side of the table mutters, looking stunned. Tony swiftly goes through his mental rolodex and comes up with a name: Gabriel Ortiz, head of the medical technology division.

"Yes, Gabriel it's me. I hope you don't mind if I jump in on a first name basis," Tony carefully replies, "We're all busy people and I'd like to make this as efficient as possible."

"Mr. Stark—Tony—" A round-faced Asian American woman interrupts, "You can't just show _up _after all these years and not expect a few questions!"

"You're right, Cho, and a lot of them will be answered in due time," Tony nods, "but at the moment, I'm going to pull rank. I don't like doing it, but once you hear me out, I think you'll appreciate the gravity of our situation."

"Hold on," comes another voice, this one from a burly man near the end of the table. Tony watches Roger Landon scowl. "I don't know about the other people here, but damn it, I need _proof _that you're Tony Stark."

"Really?" Tony snaps back, his frustration bringing out his sarcasm. "How about you show me proof that you're Roger Landon? We can make this suspicion-fest go both ways since I haven't seen any of you in person either, you know. Fine. Let me give you what I've got. Jarvis, scan this room—"

Obediently the camera swings around, and Tony watches it sweep over his father's study around him, zeroing in on the diplomas and awards wall, the display case with some of the first prototype Stark technology, and finally move past the huge oil painting portrait of his mother before circling back to focus once more on him. Tony straightens his tie, grateful now for the haircut and glares at the assembled group at the table.

Roger Landon is silent, and Tony takes pity on him and the rest of the assembled group. "The particulars of my condition and situation are in the folders in front of you. You don't need to read it now, but it's there. Now if we can move to the main point of this quorum-"

The reaction of the board to his request is . . . gratifying. A few of them shoot looks at each other, but Tony notes that nobody rushes immediately to Obie's defense, which gives him the grim confirmation that Stane's actual policies and popularity are a far cry from the line he's been feeding Tony for years. Tony carefully outlines his reasons for this move, directing them again to the printouts in front of them, thoughtfully compiled by Rochelle Moon from downloads provided by Jarvis.

As some of the board members scan the information, Tony sees a few winces and hears a few gasps; it's clear now that Stane has kept some of his activities and personal projects away from public knowledge—particularly the contents in safe number three.

When the vote comes, Tony breathes a sigh of relief, and thanks them for their support. After the camera clicks off, trembling, he pulls out the desk trash can and vomits into it noisily. He feels better afterwards though, and carries it to the bathroom, flushing the contents away and rinsing out his mouth first and then the can.

The Red Squeeze is still lurking on the edges, but it's not nearly as solid now, and Tony's too busy to let it get closer. He checks in with Jarvis.

"Mr. Stane has left the building," the AI reports. "Apparently he has just learned about your teleconference via a phone call from board member Ted Grossman."

Tony grits his teeth. "Yeah, I figured there had to be at least one trained monkey in the group. Where's he going?"

"Estimates from his direction, he should be arriving at our present location in twenty minutes."

"Alone?"

"Yes sir," Jarvis replies, and adds quietly, "for the moment."

Tony nods. "Okay then; you know what to do. I'm going to go . . . get ready."

"Good luck sir," comes the quiet murmur, and Tony feels oddly . . . touched. He manages a smile, and moves down to the workshop, his stomach tight and tense.

Suiting up is getting easier each time, and the 'bots more efficient at it. Tony relaxes as the armor locks in around him in a comforting press against his body. The visor clicks closed and all of the systems come on-line, feeding him immediate readouts on everything within a half-mile radius.

A bump against his leg makes him look down—Lou is brushing against one metal-covered shin and Tony grins at the sight. He snorts a little. "Scent mark it all you want; the Suit's mine, Lou."

The cat finishes his figure eight move around both legs and then fatigue sets in; he waddles over to Tony's discarded clothes and plops down in the center of them.

"Mr. Stane is attempting to call you, sir," Jarvis tells Tony.

"Put it through," Tony mutters, the tension cranking up through his body.

"Tony." The tone is flat, and without any warmth or familiarity to it. Clinical, almost, and Tony grits his teeth and starts walking to the stairs.

"Obie."

"So. You've been busy since I've been gone," Obie continues, and his words are light. Almost absent-minded. "Color me surprised."

Tony says nothing, and waits. This is the hard part, this first gambit, and despite years of chess matches against Obie, the other man is still a master.

"There is a second call, from Doctor Potts," Jarvis murmurs. "I have taken the liberty of putting Mr. Stane on hold."

"Great," Tony murmurs. "Hey Pepper! Sleep okay? Lloyd says you were dead to the world once they let you have the guest cabin."

The sound of her voice is damned sweet, all sleepy and soft. "Uh, yeah. Tony, what's going on? Where's Stane?"

"Incommunicado, according to Jarvis. Seems my AI has been locked out of Obie's phone, but I'm still getting feeds from the monitors at SI, and it looks like Obie's holing up at work for the time being. Are you okay?"

He hates lying to her, but if Pepper knew, Tony suspects she'd force Lloyd to haul anchor AND ass.

"Yes, I'm—I'm . . . okay. The police have cleared me for the time being, but I'm in Mr. Schmitt's custody for right now."

"That's good," Tony murmurs. "Lloyd's a good guy. I've been Emailing him and we've got web cameras, so we've been talking a bit. Man, he's gotten grey."

"Time marches on, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah. Listen Pepper—" he begins, but she interrupts him softly.

"I told Lloyd everything. Everything but . . . us."

"Yeah, I got that," Tony assures her, feeling a pang of joy at the memories. "Although I think he's put two and two together—not that I care, frankly. All I'm concerned about it making sure you're safe from Obie and Lloyd promised me he was on it."

"Tony-"

A muffled explosion echoes softly in the distance. Tony mutters, "God I love you, Pep. Gotta go—"

He waves to the monitor in the living room, and Jarvis obediently cuts off the call. Immediately the sound of Obie's voice fills the quiet.

"You know, Tony, there's a reason I've been good to you all these years. It's not the camaraderie, or loyalty to your father or any of those naïve reasons you may still be harboring," Obie muses, still using that quiet voice. "I'm sure you realize by now that I'm not a sentimental sort of man."

"Yeah, I know that," Tony chokes a bit, and cocks his head. Jarvis gives him a projected hologram feed of the front gate cameras, and Obie's Bugatti Veyron sitting in front of it. Stane has a remote in his hand; he's just used it to blow apart one of the locks. He looks smug, and Tony lets that expression sear into his vision, realizing now how often he's seen it.

That self-satisfied, arrogance lingering just behind the little smile, and the gleam in those eyes . . . how the _fuck_ had he missed that all these years? Tony grits his teeth and turns away, moving away from it.

He gets into position, closing his eyes, trying to concentrate.

"You are . . . an asset, Tony. You always have been. See, Howard was a genius too. Brilliant man, gifted in ways that made Oppenheimer and Einstein look like the geeks they were. But Howard had this _bizarre_ idea that weapons weren't a good idea. Wanted to phase them out from the Stark Industry game plan," Stane says, and presses the remote again.

The second lock blows, and the force of it makes the gate roll back; Obie guns the car and races up the driveway. Tony watches with a sick lurch in his stomach.

"Couldn't have that," Stane cheerfully shouts over the connection and the thrum of the Bugatti's engine. "He hadn't studied enough history, Tony. Your father didn't seem to understand that while peace is a great concept, war is what drives economies, and the people who supply the weapons pretty much control the nations that buy them. Simple math, simple fact."

"It's bullshit, Obie," Tony growls back, breaking free of his paralysis for the moment. "You're using philosophy to justify a hell of a lot of murders, starting with _his_!"

"Oh don't give me that!" Stane calls back, and the car squeals to a stop in front of the mansion steps. "And you may want to take a look at your _own _hands, Tony. Over half the innovations to our missiles came from you personally!"

He feels the Red Squeeze coming on, even in the Suit, and Tony closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing.

"That's right, Wonder Kid," Stane reminds him, voice filled with cold glee. "Nobody knows more about mass destruction than you do." Tony watches Stane jog up the steps, a metal briefcase in his hand. "So before you start getting self-righteous, maybe we ought to talk about things, because while you may _think_ you know what you're doing, you're still damaged goods, Tony. I mean Christ's sake, you can't even answer your own Goddamn door!"

Tony flexes his gauntlets, and waits. He knows Obie is going to start looking for him, going to start with the most obvious place in the mansion, and the tension is so tight he can almost taste it. He forces himself to breathe slowly and evenly as he hears Obie step inside the foyer.

"Asset, Tony. That brain of yours, churning out ideas all the time," Obie continues, and his voice is warmer now. Tony blinks against a stupid, sudden gleam of wetness. No tears, not now.

"You're a genius. I saw it early on, ya know. How easily all the math and science came to you. Howard's intelligence in malleable form; Howard two point oh if you like. And I realized that in the right circumstances, I could shape you into my own little weapons genie, so I did. I took out the distractions, gave you a workshop and made sure nobody bothered you."

"My parents weren't fucking _distractions!" _Tony yells, unable to stop himself. "You fucking BASTARD!"

He hears Stane's footsteps moving more quickly now, over the marble floor. Jarvis obligingly provides a small monitor window inside the visor, and Tony watches as Stane heads for the workshop steps.

"Pair of serious alcoholics the both of them," Stane murmurs regretfully. "Howard was up to a bottle of scotch a day on top of three packs of unfiltered cigarettes and headed for a massive coronary. And your pretty mother was doing enough sherry and Seconals to stay self-sedated twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four, Tony. You know it's the truth."

Tony bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. It WAS the truth, but it's also not the point. Stane is deliberately trying to distract him—just as he has so many, many times before.

The blood is salty and reminds him he's alive.

"Come on out, Tony. I don't want this to get ugly," Stane croons. "We can still talk this through." There's a faint whine, and Tony hears the glass shatter; the massive high tinkling of shards exploding.

Waiting. Listening to Stane's expensive Italian shoes crunching on broken glass as he moves into the workshop and stops. "Ho-lee shit! Oh look at all the pretty projects we've got going here! Man oh man," Stane muses. "You_ have_ been a busy boy in your spare time, haven't you? Sort of a pity I'm going to have to confiscate it and see what my guys can do about reverse engineering it, but those are the breaks. Come on OUT, Tony and let's get this over with!"

After a while he hears the footsteps again, and for a while they move through the house, slowly at first, and then with growing speed. Tony grins to himself, aware of Stane's panic. When he hears the footsteps come back once more into the living room, he steps out from behind the wall and turns, looking at Obie.

Through the glass.

Obie looks up, and it's almost laughable to see the stunned surprise sweep over that arrogant face. Tony raises a hand, very slowly . . .

And flips the bird, the gloved gauntlet making it a little clumsy, but still perfectly recognizable just the same.

Stane deliberately walks to the sliding glass door and opens it, his tie fluttering in the breeze. He stands there, staring at Tony, his gaze taking in the sleek lines of the Suit, and there's a hunger in his stare that's unnerving as hell. "You look like a fucking Ultraman," he announces after a moment.

"I trusted you," Tony replies tonelessly. "For _years _Obie. I did what you wanted, and now I find out that I didn't even have a _choice_ about it. You had me drugged and conditioned so that I'd dance to any fucking tune you played. That's over."

"So you're a big boy now, are you?" Stane murmurs. "Out on the porch all by yourself in your big steel diaper. Look me in the eye and tell me you're ready to take back Stark Industries, Tony. Just do that and prove it."

"It's OVER, Obie," Tony repeats, his voice slightly wobbly. He's not good at confrontation; hasn't had the years of practice that Obie has.

"Yeah that's what I thought," Stane sneers. "You're not outside, Tony. You're just in a portable room. It may be powered by that arc and have all the latest gadgets, but it's still a fucking security blanket."

Tony grits his teeth and flicks the retina-activated switch; the helmet plate unfolds swiftly, uncovering his face and he blinks rapidly, trying not to let the sensations overwhelm him: fresh air, light, breeze, all touching his skin.

He shifts, making a move towards the door, but stops deliberately, and faces Obie, fighting down the Red Squeeze that is rising up in his throat.

Fighting HARD. "It's over."

"Yep," Obie agrees, "it is," and lifts his hand, bringing up a tiny remote. With horror, Tony recognizes it.

The tone beams out, and suddenly white-hot pain fills Tony; floods every strand of muscle in his body, cramping it hard and locking him into place.

A distant yowl goes up, pained and furious.

Obie smiles benignly. "And you thought _I_ was arrogant. So damned easy to goad you, Tony. Shit-you rise to a bait like a fucking rainbow trout in an Idaho stream. Yeah, this little number is worth its weight in gold," he holds up the remote and taps one of his ears, showing the plugs in them. "Held it back for a moment just like this. Now, I'm afraid you're going to have a serious accident. You'll go over the rail and into the water down there . . . I'm sure that armor will take you straight to the bottom, and in a few days I'll have some very discreet divers come retrieve you. It will be a sad little funeral—a final tragic coda to the Stark family story, and who knows? In a year or so, we'll have a line of body armor ready to sell to the militaries of the world. Might take longer for the arc technology to be duplicated, but we'll have time."

Tony can't even blink, and sweat soaks his brow. He fights to speak, to move.

He can't. The tone continues to sound. More yowling echoes.

"Of course, I'll have to clean house a little," Obie continues, frowning at the sound. "Take care of that doctor of yours. Bad idea, but I figured if you got laid you'd be easier to handle. I may have to pay her a little visit and offer my own brand of condolences."

Furiously Tony tenses, trying to fight. Stane watches him and laughs. "Let's scoot you over to the edge; I've got a dinner date I can't miss for alibi reasons."

Tony manages to rock a bit, and he hits the tipping point before Obie can stop him; Tony falls onto the balcony, crashing onto the concrete ground with a heavy clatter. He blinks, and suddenly an orange-colored streak of fury flies through the open door, a snarl of deep-throated rage rumbling out.

Lou leaps, hits Obadiah Stane in the hip and snags onto him, twenty long claws sinking in deep. He hisses, biting hard and Stane grunts, stumbling under the onslaught.

Tony manages to blink, and for a second he wonders what the hell is going on, but then he realizes exactly what the issue is, and he wants to laugh, because it's funny as hell.

The tone.

The damned audio tone that is holding him in paralysis must be driving Lou mad, and clearly an enraged twenty-two pound cat is nothing to mess with. Obie is cursing and trying to pull Lou off; Tony can only see part of the battle from the corner of his eye.

More low rumbling, and Tony sees blood droplets fly, hit the cement.

Then a hoarse streak of curses, and the clatter of the remote; it skitters over and Tony realizes it's right next to his nose. He could almost . . . touch it . . .

A growl from Obie and more blood. Tony pushes his muscles, stretches hard. The armor helps, and he hears Jarvis' voice very softly from the shoulder speaker. "Allow me to assist you—"

Tony grunts in affirmation, and although he can't feel his arm move, it does, dropping on the remote and crushing it into the cement.

Obie growls, still struggling. Tony whispers again, his tone barely audible. "R-roll me . . . over . . . repulsor . . ."

He feels the armor shift, moving his useless form. Tony manages a blink and the mask reconnects, the retina scan takes his command easily. He blinks again, grateful for the system that allows him to work this armor without words, and his arm comes up.

Obie is struggling to peel Lou off; at any other time the scene would be funny, but Tony is trying to line up a shot. He whispers again, hoarsely. "Jarvis . . . if lines up. Take . . . take it."

"Sir," the AI echoes in his helmet.

And then, one second, one perfect moment and Tony sees it, squeezes and watches as the blast catches Obie's shoulder, grazing it, pushing the man back. He flings Lou and attempts to catch his balance, but the force of the blast at this range is impossible to counter, and he goes . . .

. . . over—

-there is a scraping sound and a hoarse, long cry that freezes Tony's blood. The sound fades quickly, and he blinks, stunned.

The faceplate opens again for him.

Stunned.

Stunned until the warm press of orange cat fur brushes his face as Lou rubs against him. The cat sniffs Tony's eyebrows, then waddles a few steps away, plops down, and weakly begins to clean blood off his pumpkin colored fur.

Tony blinks, and his voice is a hoarse, husky whisper, barely audible. "Jarvis . . ."

"Mr. Stane has fallen over the balcony," the AI reports. "I have notified the authorities. I suggest you allow the service 'bots to carry you to the workshop and assist you out of your armor."

"Fallen . . ."

"Indeed sir. I believe he slipped on a patch of his own blood," comes the calm reply. "Both you and Louis require medical attendance; I shall send for Doctor Potts as well."

"Lou . . ." Tony shifts his gaze to the cat. Blood is not only spattered on his fur, but it's also leaking out of his pointed ears in small trickles.


	21. Chapter 21

"He's deaf," the veterinarian murmurs gently. "Or very nearly. His sense of balance is unimpaired, but the damage to the bones of both inner ears is pretty extensive."

Lou seems unimpressed with the diagnosis; Pepper bites her lip as tears threaten. She scoops the groggy cat up from the exam table, cuddling him.

This, Lou likes, and purrs. The vet gives a compassionate smile. "I've given him a pain-reliever –here's the prescription—and some drops to help fight infection, _and_ a diet formula for dry kibble; I don't think his hearing loss is going to affect his quality of life too much, but I'd suggest you keep him indoors for his own safety from now on."

Pepper nods and tucks Lou into his carrier; he protests for a bit and settles down as she hauls it to the car.

Once there, Pepper draws a breath and picks up her phone. Jarvis answers immediately.

"Doctor Potts."

"He's lost most of his hearing," Pepper murmurs sadly. "Other than that he's okay. We'll need to keep an eye on him from now on though."

"I am fully prepared to monitor Louis constantly," the AI assures her. "Shall you be returning to the compound?"

"Yes," Pepper replies wearily, and starts the car.

It's nearly ten at night, and the emergency clinic fades from the rear-view mirror as she heads out on the road, feeling tired but unable to sleep. Pepper isn't sure she'll _ever _be able to sleep at this point, but the saving grace is that Tony is in good hands for the moment.

She heads towards the Pacific Coast Highway, and for a moment Pepper remembers the first time she did this, so long ago.

Not so long ago, she chides herself. Maybe in time but not emotion. She and Tony have compressed their relationship within some magic portal, and while to the world it seems they've known each other a few months, in their own timelines it feels like years.

Pepper smiles. She speeds up a bit, and looks up the coast line, to the twinkling lights that dot the landscape there. The marina. The shops and restaurants and homes. Further beyond them, standing up on the point, Tony's home.

He's there right now, she knows, being watched over by Yinsen and Jim, resting after being questioned by the police.

It's been hell, opening up the house and having so many strangers inside, and she's proud of him for letting it happen.

She's proud of him for so much more than that, but this sort of caps a lot of it.

Pepper looks at the dark water and then a sudden shiver runs through her as fleeting thoughts of Stane flash in her mind.

"You bastard," she murmurs, feeling a surge of honest hate tinge her words. It's difficult for her; Pepper has always been careful with her emotions.

"You built your own empire out of Tony's gifts. You kept him prisoner and intimidated me and you, you . . . you hurt my CAT, Goddamn you!" Pepper yells, and suddenly it's too much. She pulls over in a little parking lot for a Seven-Eleven and begins to cry, resting her forehead on the steering wheel and feeling the harsh emotion drain out of her like an infection; full of fury and sorrow.

There IS a catharsis in tears. Pepper knows this from bitter experience, so she lets herself cry fully, riding out the sobs and sting and anger.

Lou meows uncertainly a few times, and when Pepper finally wipes her face, she glances over at his carrier and sniffles.

"I'm okay," she tells him, feeling a little silly about doing it, and laughs weakly. "Oh Lou. Yes, I'm better."

And she is, a bit. Crying lightens the heart.

Pepper starts the car again, and makes her way up to the mansion, passing by the police tape and barricade, making her way up to the curved driveway, and lugging Lou's carrier up the steps. The door swings open of its own accord,

She steps inside; Detective Zelig looks up at her and smiles. "Cat okay?"

Pepper shrugs jerkily. "He's . . .deaf now."

The detective's face falls, and he swears under his breath as he comes over to poke a finger into the carrier. Lou sniffs it.

"Damn it. I'm sorry, Doctor Potts, I really am. He gonna be able to manage?"

"He should be," Pepper clears her throat. "With care. Where's T . . . Mr. Stark?"

"Master bedroom," Detective Zelig tells her. "Doctor Yinsen gave him a mild sedative and is up there with him. We're almost done processing here, and I'll leave some plainclothes on the gate for a few days, keep the media out. Damned shame—"

This last is to Lou, Pepper realizes, and she nods, taking the carrier with her to the elevator.

Upstairs Pepper knocks on the door and Yinsen himself lets her in. He looks at the carrier and she tells him the prognosis.

"I'm so sorry." Yinsen reaches out and squeezes her shoulder compassionately.

"He'll be okay," Pepper repeats, looking over his shoulder at Tony. He's stretched out on the left side of the mattress, trying to open his eyes and not quite succeeding. Pepper sets the carrier down and opens the door; Lou cautiously wanders out and makes a valiant attempt to leap onto the bed, not _quite_ making it, but scrambling up at the last minute.

Tony gives a soft chuckle. "Nice job, Super Lou. How is he?"

Pepper glides over and sits down, facing Tony, who catches her expression and starts to sit up. Yinsen glides out, leaving them in privacy, and she waits until they're alone.

"He's deaf," she tells Tony gently. "The device . . . Lou's inner ears couldn't take it, and the damage is permanent."

"Fuck!" it comes out viciously, and Tony struggles to sit up, a glint of fury in his eyes. Pepper lightly drops her hands on his shoulders and catches them, feeling the strength of the muscles there.

"I know," she agrees, and a little quirk at the corner of her mouth softens her expression. "But he'll be fine. The hardest prescription will be the diet kibble."

"No way," Tony protests in a mumble, his gaze locked on the circle of orange fur settled on the end of the bed. "He gets filet Mignon and Highland Salmon the rest of _his_ days. All the thin sliced roast beef he wants, Pepper. He _saved_ my life. Not because he knew what he was doing, but that doesn't change the outcome here, you know?"

"I know," Pepper assures Tony, feeling a surge of love in the pit of her stomach for this confused genius. "The Chuck Norris of cats. We'll . . . negotiate," she assured him gently. "I'm not ready to give Lou the keys to the kitchen JUST yet."

Tony snorts and reaches up, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. For a moment he says nothing, and she closes her eyes, appreciating the touch more than anything he could say.

"Think I've done more talking today than this whole year past," Tony finally admits. "Paramedics, detectives, Lloyd, Yinsen, Rochelle and the board. My GOD there are a lot of people out there. I mean, I KNEW they were there, but I always had that degree of separation."

"You were very . . . insulated," Pepper nods. "Not really a social butterfly."

"A caterpillar in a cocoon," Tony agrees drowsily, "A_ hairy_ one." he yawns and adds, "You're coming to bed, right?"

Pepper almost hesitates, but the thought of staying with him and Lou wins out and she smiles. "Let me make sure Yinsen gets home safely, and after that . . ."

"Okay," Tony mumbles, and closes his eyes. "You'll have clothes tomorrow. I had Jarvis order some."

Pepper blinks. "Ordered some?"

"Yeah," Tony settles back against the pillows. "I had him check through some of your credit card records—don't get mad—and find your sizes and stuff. Wanted to make sure you had something that fit, since I couldn't get out there to shop . . ."

She can't speak, torn between a surge of outrage at this blatant invasion of her privacy . . . and the shy thoughtfulness behind the gesture. The idea that Tony blithely had access to personal aspects of her life at the touch of his fingers is frightening, but it's ameliorated by the idea that by tomorrow she'll have something to wear that's not donated, or loaned.

Pepper bites her lip, to stop herself from snapping at Tony. Instead, she sighs and pats his hand. He opens one eye to check her expression, and his own droops a bit. "Too much?"

"No, somehow it's very . . . you," Pepper admits. "Really."

"I hear disapproval," Tony whispers sadly.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Stark," she replies, bending to kiss his forehead before getting up to take care of things.

Later, in the early hours before dawn, when the land is dark and the only sounds usually heard are the waves outside, they make love again, slowly, sweetly, wrapped in blankets and cocooned in an intimacy all their own. Pepper loses herself in the warm rush of languid orgasms, like hot pearls, one after another, all a gift from the man in her arms.

This is what matters, she realizes. This skin-to-skin time with Tony, quiet and oh so very personal. He is in _love _with her skin, her body, and constantly touches and licks and kisses her, running big hands along her thighs or through her hair, stroking with a lust-tinged reverence that makes her want to cry. Nobody has ever made Pepper feel like this, and the ache in her throat loosens enough for her to tell him what's been building deep inside.

Her words make Tony cry; she feels his tears against her shoulder, along with his smile.

Later, they sit on the sill of the window, looking out over the water as behind them, dawn begins to light up the new day. The air is still, but fresh, and a breeze stirs Pepper's air. Tony breathes it in deeply, his arms around her.

"So today begins the new life of Tony Stark," she murmurs to him. "What do you have planned? Going to go outside for a walk?"

She's teasing; she has that right now.

Tony nuzzles behind her ear. "Nope. Sometimes you've got to run before you can walk."

"What does _that_ mean?" Pepper asks, feeling a small tingle of panic. There's something in the tone of his voice that makes wary, and his next words confirm it.

"I'm going to fly," Tony tells her.

Pepper freezes. He's absolutely confident, he has the Suit, and she senses that Tony Stark is going to make good on those words, yes indeed. It may take months, or years, but in her mind's eye, Pepper can visualize that red and gold armor streaking through the air, and while that should fill her with worry and fury—

She turns and nestles into his arms, burrowing in against the arc. "We'll start with going out and getting the mail, Tony."

He laughs and his arms tighten around her once more.

End.

_(Sometimes the single best thing an author can do is know where the story should end. For this novel, this is precisely that point. Thank you for reading and letting me know what you thought about it. I value your feedback very much!)_


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